“I wouldn’t put murder past him, either,” said Bill.
“His actions prove he’s in deadly earnest,” Dorothy went on, and then turned to Ol’ Man River, who was peacefully puffing his pipe. “You’ve heard what we were saying, Uncle Abe. Have you any suggestions to give us?”
That ancient colored gentleman removed the corncob from between his teeth and pursed his lips. “Waal, yaas, m’am. I reckon Marse Johnson is de answer to yo’ question,” he said thoughtfully.
“Oh, he’s the reservation superintendent—you’re right, Uncle Abe—he can do it if anyone can. Why didn’t we think of him before?”
“Dat am so, Missy. Der ain’t a-gwine nobody ter stop yo’all long wid Marse Johnson.”
“That’s a great idea, Uncle,” applauded Bill. “The super’s house is right across the reservation from here, if I recall rightly?”
“Yaas, suh, it am. Right down yonder where de Boutonville road come out far side ob de reservation t’ard Cross River.”
“Think you could pilot us down there and give those guys in the woods the miss?”
“I speck dese men ain’t gwine ter git familious wid us if yo’ foller Ol’ Man River. I’se boun’ we-all sho’ give ’em de bestes’ game er hide an’ seek dey ez ever had. It ain’t a-gwine be easy, Marse Bill. But I’ll git yo’all down yonder and den you kin carry de young Missy home in a kyar. Marse Johnson, he’s got three automerbiles.”
“I hope it’ll be as easy as you say,” grinned Bill, amused by the old man’s earnestness. “I’ll make a bundle of Miss Dorothy’s clothes and then the best thing we can do is to get started.”