Frederick told them everything he knew--about stories he and Tommy had read together, spelling books, newspapers he had filched in Baltimore, how men wrote down their deeds and thoughts, about things happening in other places, how once white men fought a war, and a speech one of the boys had learned from the _Columbian Orator_--a speech that said “Give me liberty or give me death!” “All dat in a book?” But then they noticed Master William sitting with a book. Evening were long now and warmer. The master rode only in the mornings. They saw him on the veranda, for hours at a time, sitting with a book. One day Henry made up his mind. “I’ll git me a book!” It was easy. Just walk into the room which was usually empty and take a book! It was his job to dust them, anyhow, so no one noticed. Henry could hardly wait for evening when Frederick would come in from the fields. Henry and John and Handy--waiting with a book. They were excited. Frederick’s heart leaped too when he saw the book. He took it eagerly and opened to the title page. He frowned. The words were very long and hard-looking. Pictures would have made it easier, but no matter. He turned to the first page. They held their breath. Frederick was going to read. But Frederick did not read. Letters were on the page in front of him, but something terrible had happened to them. He strained his eyes searching--searching for one single word he recognized. Had he forgotten everything? That could not be. With his mind’s eye he could see pages and words very clearly. But none of the words he remembered were here. What kind of book was this? Slowly he spelt out the title, vainly endeavoring to put the letters together into something that would make sense. “G-a-r-g-a-n-t-u-a-e-t-p-a-n-t-a-g-r-u-e-l.” And underneath all that were the letters “R-a-b-e-l-a-i-s.” He shook his head. Many years later, in Paris, Frederick Douglass read portions of Rabelais’ _Gargantua et Pantagruel_. And he vividly recalled the awful sense of dismay which swept over him the first time he held a copy of this masterpiece of French literature in his hands. They were waiting. He swallowed painfully. “G’wan, big boy! Read!” Handy was impatient. “I--I--” Frederick began again. “This--This book--It’s not--the one I meant. I can’t make--This book--” He stopped. John drew nearer. “Hit’s a book, ain’t it?” He was ready to defend his brother. “Yes, but--” “Then read hit!” Frederick turned several pages. It was no use. He wished the ground would open and swallow him up. He forced his lips to say the words. “I--can’t!” They stared at him, not believing what they heard. Then they looked at each other and away quickly. They’d been taken in. He had been lying all the time. Handy spat on the ground, disgusted. But Henry was puzzled. Frederick looked as if he were going to be sick. He hadn’t looked like that when the old lady struck him, or when Master William came out after him with his whip. Henry shifted his weight.