“One thousand slaves a year disappear!” John Calhoun thundered in Congress. “They go as if swallowed up by an underground passage.” The idea caught on. Young America expanding--passages opening to new territory. To a people still using the stagecoach, trains symbolized daring and adventure. An underground railway to freedom! Men cocked their hats rakishly, cut off their mustaches and tightened the holsters at their belts; small shopkeepers put heavy padlocks on their doors and slipped out to meetings; tall, lean men wearing linen and nankeen pantaloons--sons of planters among them--emptied their mint juleps and climbed into the saddle; the devout Quaker put a marker in his Bible and dug a new deep cellar underneath his house, partitioned off rooms with false walls and laid in fresh supplies of thick wide cloaks and long black veils. What more natural than that slaves down in their quarters sang, _Dat train comin’, hit’s comin’ round da bend!_ and _Git on board, lil’ chillun, git on board!_ The “train” might be a skiff, securely fastened under overhanging reeds. Or it might be a peddler’s cart, an open wagon filled with hay, or the family carryall, driven by a quiet man in a wide-brimmed Quaker hat, who spoke softly to the ladies sitting beside him, neatly dressed in gray, with Quaker bonnets on their heads and veils over their faces. The “train” might simply be a covered-up path through the woods. But the slave voices rose, exulting: “Da train am rollin’ Da train am rollin’ by-- Hallelujah!” “Conductors” planned the connections. And David Ruggles in the house on Church Street routed the train in and out of New York City. He collected and paid out money, received reports and checked routes. David Ruggles was a busy man. He heard Frederick through quietly. Frederick was worried. If he could not stay in New York, where would he go? “It’s a big country,” Mr. Ruggles assured the young man. “A workman is worthy of his hire. We shall look about.” Then he asked abruptly, “Have you written the young lady?” Frederick felt his face burn. Being among people with whom he could share his precious secret was a new experience. “Y-es, sir,” he stammered. “I--I posted a letter this morning--On my way here.” He looked toward Tom Stuart, whose eyes were laughing at him. The seaman put in a word. “Got up and wrote the letter before dawn!” “Since she is a freewoman,” Mr. Ruggles smiled, “she can no doubt join you immediately.” “Yes--Yes, sir.” “Very well. Then you must remain under cover until she comes.” “He’s safe at my house,” Tom Stuart said quickly, and the secretary nodded. “That is good,” he said. “And now for the record.”