This rather excited curiosity. What if this black fellow should prove to know something about the murder, or, at any rate, of the person who had led poor Katharine Allen into all this trouble. This idea whetted the questions that were let loose on the travellers, till both the negro and boy were thoroughly bewildered.
"Mebbe you're acquainted with Mrs. Allen—knew her afore she moved here, I dare say!" suggested a farmer from over the hill.
Jube shook his head, more to express his incapacity to understand than as a negative to the question.
"No; that's sort o' strange; but then, perhaps, you're related to some of the colored people hereabouts?"
"No, agin; stranger and stranger yet—not know Mrs. Allen, nor any of the colored population of this neighborhood. Then jist excuse me if I ask who on arth you are acquainted with?"
"We know Mr. Rice, the widow lady's son," answered Paul, in his sweet, broken language, and lifting a face to the stranger that softened every feature of his rough visage.
"You know David Rice, my little shaver! Wall, we reckon not, for he was drowned three months or more ago. Wrecked at sea. Captain Thrasher e'nmost saw him go down."
"It was on that ship we with him! Jube he help him bring her into port!" cried the boy, his great, velvety eyes filling with light as he lifted them exultingly to the negro.
The story of two persons—a negro and a boy—having insisted on sharing the fate of David Rice, on the disabled vessel, had gone the rounds of the village, and a general burst of surprise followed the boy's speech.
"Now, you don't say so! You the little shaver that sot right down by Dave Rice on that deck, and wouldn't get up on no consideration!" cried one. "Wall, now, how things du turn out. I couldn't a believed it, and sich a slender little critter, too; I swan to man, it beats all!"