"Set her loose, Jim! we're all right now!"

     But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:

     "Yes."

     "Whereabouts?" says I.

     "Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. Was you looking for him?"

      "You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out."

     "Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South, som'ers."

     "It's a good job they got him."

     "Well, I RECKON! There's two hunderd dollars reward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the road."