The old fellow started to answer, then cocked his head and lifted a warning hand.
“Is folks a-follerin’ yo’ chill’un?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “and they mustn’t catch us!”
“Dey’s someone a-comin’,” he whispered. “Don’ yo’ say nuffin’. Jes do like Uncle Abe tell yo’all and he fix it so nobody can’t find nuffin’ hyar!”
Chapter XII
VOICES FROM BELOW
“Take dose clo’es by de fire yonder,” directed the sharp-eared old man, “an’ go in de back room an’ shin up de wall shelves to dese fo’-by fo’s oveh our heads. Tote de clo’es ’long wid yo’ an’ lay flat on dem boards. ’Times I trap somefin’ out er season—dis niggeh’s got ter eat—dat dere’s mah hidin’ place. Nobody can’t see yo’all, nobody can’t fin’ yo’ dere!”
While he talked and the others snatched their half dried things from before the fire, the old darky was clearing the table of dishes. He flung the remains of the meal onto the blazing logs and scooping up the cups and plates, stacked them, dirty as they were, on a shelf.
Dorothy and Bill ran into the back room and scrambled up to the crossbeams. As they crawled along the boards which were laid close together in threes, they saw Uncle Abe light an ancient corncob, then pick up a tattered newspaper and sit down by the fire. No more had they laid themselves flat on their airy perch with their bundles of damp clothing, than there came a pounding on the cabin door.
“Who dat?” called out Ol’ Man River without moving from his chair.
“Open up, do you hear, River? I want to speak to you,” barked a voice from out the night.