“Hush, Pete, not a word! We are trying to save you,” and Carson removed his hand. “Who dat? Oh, my God, who dat talkin'?” Pete gasped. “Carson Dwight,” said the young man. “Now hush, and hurry.” “Thank God it you, Marse Carson--oh, Marse Carson, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um kill me!” “No, you are safe, Pete.” In a rush they now bore him round the corner, and then pausing at the door of the store, to be certain that no extraneous eye was on them, they waited breathlessly for an order from their leader. “All right, in you go!” presently came from Pole's deep voice, in a great breath of relief. “Open the door, quick!” The shutter creaked and swung back into the black void of the store, and the throng pressed inward. The door was closed. The darkness was profound. “Wait; listen!” Pole cautioned. “Thar might be somebody on the sidewalk at the front.” “Oh, my God, Marse Carson, is you here?” came from the quaking negro. “Sh!” and Pole imposed silence. For a moment they stood so still that only the rapid panting of the negro was audible. “All right, we are safe,” Baker said. “But, gosh! it was a close shave! Strike a light an' let's try to ease up this feller. I hated to be rough, but somebody had to do it.” “Yes, it had to be,” said Dwight. “Pete, you are with friends. Strike a light, Blackburn, the poor boy is scared out of his wits.” “Oh, Marse Carson, what dis mean? what you-all gwine ter do ter me?” Blackburn had groped to the lamp on the table and was scratching a match and applying the flame to the wick. The yellow light flashed out, and a strange sight met the bewildered gaze of the negro as kindly faces and familiar forms gradually emerged from the sheeting. Near him stood Dwight, and grasping his hand, Pete clung to it desperately. “Oh, Marse Carson, what dey gwine ter do ter me?” “Nothing, Pete, you are all right now,” Carson said, as tenderly as if he were speaking to a hurt child. “The mob was coming and we had to do what we did to save you.” He explained the plan of keeping him hidden in the cellar for a few days, and asked Pete if he would consent to it. “I'll do anything you say, Marse Carson,” the negro answered. “You know what's best fer me.” “I've got an old mattress here,” Blackburn spoke up; “boys, let's get it into the cellar. It will make him comfortable.” And with no sense of the incongruity of their act, considering that as the sons of ex-slave-holders they had never in their lives waited upon a negro, Wade Tingle and Keith Gordon drew the dusty mattress from a dry-goods box in the corner of the room and bore the cumbersome thing through the cellar doorway into the cob webbed darkness beneath. Blackburn followed with a candle, indicating the best-ventilated spot for its placement. Thither Carson led his still benumbed client, who would move only at his bidding, and then like a jerky automaton. “You won't be afraid to stay here, will you, Pete?” he asked.