The darkey almost fell prone in his fright. "Name o' goodness!" he exclaimed. "Wha' dat? Oh—oh—dere's a painter, now!"
Joe called again, more mournfully, more ominously than before.
Neb's fright became a trembling panic. "Hit's a-comin' closer!" he exclaimed. "I feel as if de debbil's gwine ter git me!" He stooped and started on a crouching run directly toward the rock behind which Joe was hiding.
As the old man would have passed, Joe jumped out from his ambush, and, bringing his right hand down heavily upon the darky's shoulder, emitted a wild scream, absolutely terrifying in its savage ferocity. With a howl Neb dropped upon his knees, praying in an ecstasy of fear.
"Oh, good Mister Painter, good Mister Debbil—" he began.
Inasmuch as he was not devoured upon the instant, he finally ventured to look up and Joe laughed loudly.
So great was the relief of the old negro that he did not think of anger. A sickly smile spread slowly on his face. "De Lawd be praised!" he said. "Why, hit's a man!"
"Reckon I am," said Joe. "Generally pass for one." Then, although he knew quite well just why the man had come, from whom, for whom, he asked sternly to confuse him: "What you doin' in these mountings?"
"I's lookin' fo' my massa, young Marse Frank Layson, suh," Neb answered timidly.
"You needn't to go fur to find him," Lorey answered bitterly. "You needn't to go fur to find him."