“Nonsense, Tom; you’re down in your luck to-night. But hark! Here’s some one coming outside. Dick Wharton, by the tread; he’ll rouse you, if any man can.”
Even as I spoke the door was flung open, and honest Dick Wharton, with the water pouring from him, stepped in, his hearty red face looming through the haze like a harvest-moon. He shook himself, and after greeting us sat down by the fire to warm himself.
“Whereaway, Dick, on such a night as this?” said I. “You’ll find the rheumatism a worse foe than the Kaffirs, unless you keep more regular hours.”
Dick was looking unusually serious, almost frightened, one would say, if one did not know the man. “Had to go,” he replied—“had to go. One of Madison’s cattle was seen straying down Sasassa Valley, and of course none of our blacks would go down that Valley at night; and if we had waited till morning, the brute would have been in Kaffirland.”
“Why wouldn’t they go down Sasassa Valley at night?” asked Tom.
“Kaffirs, I suppose,” said I.
“Ghosts,” said Dick.
We both laughed.
“I suppose they didn’t give such a matter-of-fact fellow as you a sight of their charms?” said Tom, from the bunk.
“Yes,” said Dick, seriously—“yes; I saw what the niggers talk about; and I promise you, lads, I don’t want ever to see it again.”