In the early summer of 1834, there came to Austinburg, Ohio, a colored man of middle age, of whose escape to Ohio tradition, even, gives little account, only that he was the property of a Baptist deacon who followed him in close pursuit. Both parties upon the ground, matters became marvellously lively in the quiet country town. Jerry was shifted from place to place, but the deacon would in some way get a clue to his whereabouts, and another move would be made to thwart the pursuer, some one being always ready to ask him what he would take for the man; but it was always with him, “I want the nigger, not money.” Wearied at length with the continued baffling, and believing he had found the retreat of his chattel, the pious deacon went to Jefferson and secured the service of Sheriff Loomis to make an arrest. The twain came upon him just before daybreak, but not to catch him napping. He was up and off just in time to elude their grasp but not until they caught a glimpse of him making across the fields in the direction of Eliphalet Austin’s, who lived near where Grand River Institute now stands. Rapping at the door, Jerry was admitted by Mr. Austin, who was just in the act of dressing himself. Reading in the excited manner of the fugitive the state of the case, Mr. Austin pointed under the family bed where his wife still lay. Jerry took the hint, and in a moment was hugging the wall in the darkest corner under the bed. Mr. Austin quietly closed the bed-room door, started a fire, and was at the well drawing a pail of water when the pursuers came up. “Have you seen my nigger this morning?” queried the Deacon. “It is pretty early to see an object so dark as a colored man, if that is what you are inquiring about,” was the response. “Well, early as it is, we have seen him, and believe he is secreted in your house.” “Oh, you do, do you? Well, gentlemen, you have the fullest liberty to search my premises and satisfy yourselves,” and, whilst the sheriff kept watch without, Mr. Austin furnished the Southerner the most abundant opportunity within. Candle in hand he led the way to the cellar, then to the garret. The children’s bed-rooms and the closets of the chamber, the parlor, spare bed-room and pantry below were all carefully examined, but no Jerry was found, and the Deacon apologetically remarked: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Austin, for this intrusion, and for the injustice I did you in supposing you were harboring my slave.” “What,” said Mr. Austin, who was also a pious man and a licentiate minister, “I hope you are not through looking yet.” “Why, I have been all over the house already.” “O no, you have not been in my wife’s bed-room yet,” said he rather sarcastically. “Go in, Deacon. Wife is not up yet; you may find your ‘nigger’ with her.” Dropping his head in very shame, the Deacon excused himself, and going out, with the sheriff rode off.