Several weeks passed, the excitement about Watson had measurably died away, two successive depositions of provisions had been left untouched and the good old couple knew “Dat de angel was feedin’ Jack no moa’, like de rabens fed ol’ ’Lijer.” They were sure, “Jack am safe.” Taking his appliances, Jack had descended the outlet some distance one starlight night, and then striking across the country, had reached the river just below the little village he had been accustomed to visit before the death of his sister. The finding of a skiff and the wrenching away of the fastening occupied but a short time and at daylight he was safely secreted in an Indiana forest. Knowledge previously gained enabled him soon to put himself in charge of an underground official, but instead of making direct for Canada he shipped for the Quaker settlement near Salem, Ohio, of which he had heard much from a fruit tree dealer before the death of Mr. Wilson, and ultimately, in the quaint home of Edward Bonsall found a secure asylum, and in his nurseries desirable employment, so far from his former home that little disturbed his mind except the frequent recurring remembrances of his slain master with the cruelly lacerated form of his sister ever rising in justification of the summary punishment that had been inflicted upon him. II. In the autumn of 1856, Jack went with Mr. Bonsall to Pittsburgh. Whilst walking along the street, he met face to face a half-brother of his late master. At first sight he thought it an apparition and turned and ran rapidly away, but not until he was himself recognized. So dextrous had been his motions that he eluded the pursuit immediately instituted and was soon among the hills beyond the city limits. Hand bills minutely describing him were again widely circulated, particularly along the belt of country bordering the Pittsburgh and Erie canal, as it was argued he would try and make his escape by that route to Canada, and all the appliances of an odious law were called into requisition to secure his apprehension. III. Rap, rap, rap, came a knuckle against the door of Thomas Douglass, of Warren, Ohio, in the silent hours of the night. Such occurrences were not frequent of late at the home of the honest Englishman whose love of justice and humanity had risen above all fear of the pains and penalties of an unrighteous law. Hastily dressing himself, he inquired, “Who comes?” “Ol’ Diligence,” a name recognized at once by Mr. Douglass as the appelation of a colored conductor from Youngstown. “Hall right; wat’s aboard?” “Subjec’, Massa Douglass, and hard pressed, too.” “’Ard pressed his ’e? Well, come in.”