"Wished dis pusson warn't so hungry," remarked Zeb, picking up a stick and whittling it.
Rosalind smiled as she arose and remarked:
"It is getting late, George, and it perhaps is best to have supper."
He made no answer and turned toward the negro.
"Zeb," said he, "in all probability we shall be obliged to leave this place in a few days for a safer location. Of course you will accompany us, and I wish it to be understood that you are to lay aside this levity and carelessness. Remember that you are in danger, as much as ourselves. Your scalp may be the first taken."
"What, dis yere wool of mine? Yah! yah! yah! Lord bless you, dey'd have a handful!"
"How would you relish being roasted at the stake?" asked George, hoping to terrify him.
"Yah! yah! Dey'd be some sizzlin', I guess."
"You will think soberly about the matter, perhaps sooner than you suspect."
"Yas," said Zeb, and his face straightened out in an instant, while he slowly and thoughtfully continued whittling.