“Yes, massar—trust old Pomp for that.”
“I know I can, you sooty villain; you are one of the few men, black or white, in whom one can place confidence.”
“Tank yer, massar,” and the old slave grasped his hand with fervor. “Now, do yer get off, and leave me to manage eberyting; dem rebels ain’t cute enough for dis yer chile, I’se willin’ to bet; ha, ha!”
“Take care of yourself, Pomp—I must leave you behind. What’s that, now?” he cried, breaking off hurriedly.
“Another swift rider,” said Butler. “Can it be the rebels?”
“Quick, massar—don’t lose a minute!”
“It isn’t them,” interrupted the messenger; “I rode like the wind—they cannot have so nearly overtaken me.”
“See who it is, Pomp—some friend, perhaps—if it only proves so, I should like to give them a hot welcome.”
Before the negro could obey, the door was flung open, and a muscular, powerful man strode into the room.
“Brant!” exclaimed both gentlemen at once.