“Well,” he said, as though he had resigned himself to the inevitable, “if you will not let me go myself, send me a messenger and I’ll have to do the best I can that way.”
“Can’t do it, Mr. Qualley. They gave me strict orders that you were not to communicate with any one.”
Qualley shrugged his shoulders and turned away as though satisfied that he had done his best and was no longer interested in what he could not avoid. There was only one more chance. Possibly he could attract the attention of some passer-by and get him to carry his message. As soon as the jailer had gone he took up his post at the window and watched.
All day long, with the exception of the few minutes when the jailer was in there at mealtime, he watched with infinite patience and still no one came. The shadows were growing very long and another half-hour would bring on the sudden darkness of the southern evening. Gradually Qualley became aware of a faint tune whistled plaintively in the distance. It was the first sign of life he had caught outside the jail all day. He listened intently. The whistling was growing slightly louder. He knew from the plaintive twang to the music that it was a negro and he judged from the sound that the musician was on the road which passed beside the jail.
Twice the whistling died out and he thought the man must have turned into another road, but it started up again, and after what seemed an age a shambling negro hove in sight. It was at least two hundred feet to the road and he was making such a noise with his whistling that there was no chance to attract his attention by any small sound.
At first Qualley tried to catch his eye. He waved a large white handkerchief back and forth across the window, first slowly, then frantically. The darky was evidently not interested in white handkerchiefs. Moreover, he had already passed the line of the window and would soon be wholly out of reach. Qualley stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew one loud, shrill blast. The jailer would probably hear it, but he might not, and there was nothing to lose if he did.
The darky heard it and stopped both his feet and his music. He looked curiously in the direction of the jail. Qualley stuck the handkerchief through the bars and waved it. Then he beckoned violently. The darky caught the signal and hesitated. On general principles he did not like to get too close to the jail, but he evidently thought this might be some comrade in distress and decided to investigate. He ambled rather aimlessly across the field, looking suspiciously to right and left, and finally brought up close to the window. Qualley recognized him as a man who had at one time worked at the camp and the man’s eyes grew big with astonishment when he recognized his old boss behind the bars.
“Listen, George,” Qualley whispered, “they have me jugged here on a false charge and I may not be able to get out for a couple of days. I’ll give you five dollars if you will take a note to Mr. Roberts to-night. He is out there in the cabin in the swamp. You have been there, haven’t you?”
“No, suh,” George answered with suspicious promptness, “I ain’t nevah been to that place.”
Qualley considered a moment. “Well, you know Sam Clark, don’t you?”