Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain.
"Tell Master David to come here."
"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked his master calmly in the face.
"Did I not tell you to stop him?"
"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the messenger—Plato could not do it!"
"How did he go?"
"On de little brown mare—his own horse done broke all up."
"How much money did you give him?"
"Money, sar?"
"How much? Tell the truth."