In a land of strangers and without protective weapons save his knife, Jake could do nothing more than to run up to a little wagon shop by the wayside, in the doorway of which stood an honest Pennsylvania Dutchman named Samuel Goist, and exclaimed, “Lor’ Massa, save me from the slave catcher.” Now, Mr. Goist was a Democrat of the straightest sect, and had long sworn by “Sheneral Shackson;” he had never before seen a panting fugitive and knew nothing of secretive methods, but when he saw the venerable, though unique form before him, his generous heart was touched, and he replied: “Hite gwick in ter hay yonder till I cums,” pointing at the same time to a last year’s haystack, into which the cattle had eaten deep recesses. It was but the work of a moment, and sable form, blue suit and plug hat were viewless in what the winter before had often sheltered the semi-farmer’s choicest steer from pitiless storm. Scarcely was this feat executed when the Youngstown parties came up and knowing the political complexion of the honest wagon-maker inquired, “Halloo, old dad, have you seen a buggy go by here with a white man, and a nigger dressed in blue, in it?” “Ya, shentelmen, py shimmeny; dot puggy vent py das corner ond yonder not more as den minit aco, unt er vas _trifing_ das horse, py shingo. I dinks you not oferdakes him much pefore Vorren.” With an expression of rough thanks, the men struck off under a full gallop which carried them into Warren right speedily, but in the meantime Barnes had watched his opportunity, turned off through Niles, and pursued his homeward journey by way of Austintown. Turning from his shop when his interrogators were out of sight, Mr. Goist called his good frou and said, “Vell, Mutter, I kes I haf lite shust a lidel.” “Vot, you, fater, haf lite? O mine!” “Vell, Mutter, you zee von plack man comes along unt asks me him for to hite, unt I say in dem stock; unt den cums sum mans fon Youngstown unt says he ‘Olt dat, you sees von puggy mit nigger unt vite man goes dis vay?’ Unt I say, ‘Ya, dot puggy vas kon py like a shtreak.’” “O mine, fater, das vas no liegen; you shust say dot puggy vas kon.” “Vell, if dot mans was Sheneral Shackson, I should him tell shust der zame.” That evening Uncle Jake received an ample supper from the larder of good Mother Goist, and was then placed in a wagon under a cover of straw and conveyed close to the house of a Mr. Stewart near the corner of Vienna, whom rumor had pointed out to the honest Dutchman as one of “dem aperlishioners.” Here he was bidden “goot py,” and soon found his way to the cabin indicated, whence in due time he was forwarded to General Andrew Bushnell, a prominent anti-slavery man south of the centre of Hartford. II.