“We must be going,” reiterated Watson, moving towards the door with unusual celerity for a blind man who had found himself in an unfamiliar apartment.
“Don’t go yet,” urged Mr. Peyton, seeking to detain the supposed vagabonds; “I want Mr. Jason to hear some of these plantation songs. I’ll pay you well for your trouble, my boy—and you can take away all the food you want.”
“I’m sorry,” began George, “but——”
As the last word was uttered Farmer Charles Jason was ushered into the study. He was a chubby little man of fifty or fifty-five, with red hair, red face and a body which suggested the figure of a plump sparrow—a kindly man, no doubt, in the ordinary course of events, but the last person on earth that the two fugitives wanted to see.
“Well, this is a surprise,” said the master of the house, very cordially. “It’s not often you favor us with a visit as far down the highway as this.”
“When a fellow has gout as much as I have nowadays,” returned Jason, “he doesn’t get away from home a great deal. But something important made me come out to-day.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?” asked Mr. Peyton.
George took hold of Watson’s left hand, and edged towards the open door. But Mr. Peyton, not waiting for Jason to answer his question, leaped forward and barred the way.
“You fellows must not go until Mr. Jason has heard those negro melodies.”
Owing to the number of people in the room (for all the children were there), Jason had not singled out the Northerners for any attention. But now he naturally looked at them. There was nothing suspicious in his glance; it was merely good-natured and patronizing.