Watson’s face suddenly clouded.
“Come to think of it,” he observed, “the combination of a man, a boy and a dog will be rather suspicious, even under our new disguise. Remember Farmer Jason’s letter last night.”
“That’s all very well,” retorted George, who had fallen in love with the beggar scheme, “but if we get away from this particular neighborhood the people won’t have heard anything about a dog or a boy. They will only know that some Northern spies are at large—and they won’t be suspicious of a blind man and his friends.”
“I reckon you’re right,” said Watson, after a little thought. “Let us get away from here, before it grows lighter, and put the neighbors behind us.”
The man and boy, and the telltale dog, jumped to their feet.
“Good-bye, Mr. Buckley,” murmured Watson, as he took a last look at the minister’s house, “and heaven bless you for one of the best men that ever lived!”
They were hurrying on the next moment, nor did they stop until they had put six or seven miles between themselves and the Buckley home. The sun, directly away from which they had been moving, was now shining brightly in the heavens, as it looked down benevolently upon the well-soaked earth. They had now reached a plantation of some two hundred acres or more, in the centre of which was a low, long brick house with a white portico in front. They quickly passed from the roadway into the place, and moved up an avenue of magnolia trees. When they reached the portico a lazy looking negro came shuffling out of the front door. He gazed, in a supercilious fashion, at the two whites and the dog.
“Wha’ foah you fellows gwine come heh foah?” he demanded, in a rich, pleasant voice, but with an unwelcome scowl upon his face.
“We just want a little breakfast,” answered Watson. He was holding the boy’s arm, and looked the picture of a blind mendicant.
The darky gave them a scornful glance. “Git away from heh, yoh white trash,” he commanded. “We doan want no beggars ’round heh!”