“Damned ef I did! Arter I’d kotched Peek, he said, ef as how I’d let him go home, an’ settle up, he’d return, so help him Gawd, an’ give hisself up without no fuss or trial. Wall, I’m a judge of niggers,—kn see right through ’em,—kn ollerz tell whan a nigger’s lying. I seed Peek was in airnest, and so I let him go; and may I be shot but he cum back jest at the hour he said he would.” “Very extraordinary!” said Vance, musingly. “You must be a great judge of character, Colonel Hyde.” “Wall, what’s extrordinerer still,” continued the Colonel, “is this: Peek wanted money ter send ter his wife, and cuss me ef he didn’t offer ter go the hull way ter Cincinnati without no officers ter guard him, ef I’d give him twenty-five dollars. In coorse I done it, seein’ as how I saved fifty dollars by the operation. The minute he got on board this ’ere boat I hahd him han’cuffed, fur I knowed his promise wahn’t good no longer, anyhow.” “Colonel, what’s your address?” asked Mr. Vance. “If ever I lose a nigger, you’re the man I must send for to help me find him.” The Colonel drew forth from his vest pocket a dirty card, and presented it to Mr. Vance. It contained these words: “Colonel Delancy Hyde, Agent for the Recovery of Escaped Slaves. Address him, care of J. Breckenridge, St. Louis; Hermin & Co., New Orleans.” “Shall be proud to do yer business, Mr. Vance,” said the Colonel. “I must have a talk with that handcuffed fellow of yours by and by,” remarked Vance. “Do!” returned the Colonel. “Yer’ll find him a right knowin’ nigger. He kn read an’ write, an’ that air’s more ’n we kn say of some white folks in our part of the kintry.” “Do the owners hereabouts lose many slaves now-a-days?” “Not sence old Gashface was killed last autumn.” “Who’s Gashface? Is it a real name?” asked Vance. “Nobody ever knowed his raal name,” returned the Colonel; “an’ so we called him Gashface, seem’ as he’d a bad gash over his left cheek. He was a half mulatto, with woolly hair, an’ so short-sighted he weared specs. Wall, that bloody cuss hahz run off more niggers nor all the abolitioners in the Northwest,—damned ef he haint! Two millions of dollars wouldn’t pay fur all the slaves he’s helped across the line. He guv his hull time ter the work, an’ was crazy mad on that one pint. Last yar the planters clubbed together an’ made up a pus of five thousand dollars fur the man that ’ud shoot the cuss. Two gemmlemen from Vicksburg went inter the job, treed him, shot him dead, an’ tuk the five thousand dollars. An almighty good day’s work!”[14] “How did the planters know they had got the right man?” asked Vance. “Wall, there wah n’t much doubt about that, yer see,” said the Colonel. “Them as shot him war’ high-tone gemmlemen, both on ’em, an’ knowed the cuss well. So did I, an’ they paid me a cool hunderd,—damned if they didn’t!—to come on an’ swar ter the body.” “Let’s go and have a talk with your smart nigger,” interrupted Vance.