Pete. Nebber mind, sar, we bring good news—it won't spile for de keeping.
Scud. Ten miles we've had to walk, because some blamed varmin onhitched our dug-out. I left it last night all safe.
Pete. P'r'aps it floated away itself.
Scud. No; the hitching line was cut with a knife.
Pete. Say, Mas'r Scudder, s'pose we go in round by de quarters and raise de darkies, den dey cum long wid us, and we 'proach dat ole house like Gin'ral Jackson when he took London out dar.
Scud. Hello, Pete, I never heard of that affair.
Pete. I tell you, sar—hush!
Scud. What? [Music.]
Pete. Was dat?—a cry out dar in de swamp—dar agin!
Scud. So it is. Something forcing its way through the undergrowth—it comes this way—it's either a bear or a runaway nigger. [Draws pistol—M'Closky rushes on and falls at Scudder's feet.]