"Yassuh." Sam produced the note.
The ferryman read it, scratching his head. "That man'll be my death yet," he said. "Take a horse across today? No, sir! I'll take you across if you and the nigger'll handle oars, but not the horse! No, sir! It's against the law, anyways. No Sentry, no crossing. No, sir! I'll risk the river an' the law, just because Mr. Beecham asks it, but I can't take that there nag."
"Well, then we'll leave the horse behind," answered Tom. "I can pull an oar. Can you row, Sam?"
The negro backed against the wall, shaking his head, terrified at the thought of the rough crossing.
"Just like all of 'em," said the ferryman. "When there's any danger, don't count on them. Mr. Beecham treats his niggers too easy, anyways. I always say if he'd lick 'em they'd be better."
"He's pretty easy with them, is he?" asked Tom.
"Treats 'em as though they were prize stock," answered the ferryman in disgust. "I guess you and I can get across," he grumbled. "Two white men're better 'an a dozen of 'em."
"Sam, you take my horse back to Mr. Beecham. I'll write a note for you to carry." Tom wrote a message, explaining that the horse could not be ferried across, and asking that it be disposed of in any manner that suited Mr. Beecham's convenience.
The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river. Tom, swinging on his big oar in answer to the ferryman's cries of "Ho!" "Now!", saw the other bank creeping nearer. At last they cleared the full flood of the stream. On the other shore, Sam stood open-mouthed, watching them.
[Illustration: The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river.]