“Well, I reckon yo’ won’t do no such a thing!” she replied, forcibly. “A mighty easy thing it would be for some nigger to pop you over, and nobody to see. Yo’ won’t go that way.” “I’ll just gallop down the other road and get to the village ahead o’ the General; Tom’s thar’, we can go together after the old man; though I a’n’t afraid of the niggers.” “See! see! Meester Dunn,” said that worthy’s helpful “frau,” as they sat at their dinner in a room immediately in the rear of their grocery. “Dar is Shinneral Paker from Enefield, an’ er pe shtopping right here! Pe quick, now. My laws! but dis vill pe ine goot ebening by de bar! De Shenneral shtop ’ere, an’ all de gem’mans and companies come, too! Hurry, now Shorge!” “Dat alle right now. I fix ’m mit ole Bob gester-tag,” said the shrewd though moderate husband, George, arising from the table, and shuffling through the glass door by which the dining-room and grocery (or more accurately _groggery_), communicated, he greeted the great military dignity with a volume of broken English that was almost incomprehensible. Shaking the dust from his apparel, the distinguished guest ordered food and drink for his beast, after time given him to cool; adding that he would refresh himself while waiting for the appearance of his clients. “Alle right! alle right! De ole voman vill serve you,” replied Dunn, as he followed his colored servant and the weary horse to the stables. Gaston and Tommy were by this time crossing the great truck-farm of Robert Baker, every rood of which was purchased with the earnings of trained blood-hounds, chasing fugitives from justice or labor, and mainly the latter. In a sag of land, between the hills on the right and the river on the left, was a brickyard, in the office of which Mr. Robert Baker and his son Hanson were found. The four men were soon _en route_ for Baconsville. A colored boy, bound apprentice to the older Baker, skulked along the crooked fence by the wayside. “Joe,” said the old man, stopping the horse, “Joe, come here.” The personal appearance and reputation of the old man, and recollections of a recent chastisement for drumming for the militia company, made little Joe’s dark skin quiver as he timidly approached the vehicle. “Get in,” said the same gruff voice, as room was made for the child at Baker’s feet, where he gathered himself into the smallest possible ball, from which two great, soft, timid eyes looked from one face to another, and from the two glittering guns of the young men who rode on either side, and the pistol-shaped lumps on the left breasts of their thin coats, to the breasts of the two men fronting him in the carriage, where he could see two more bright and shining “nine-shooters” peeping out. The wind presently raised a paper from a basket standing beside him, and disclosed two great horse-pistols lying on a clean white napkin.