As he reached the summit of the first hill, he saw the Major's coach creeping slowly up the incline, and heard the old gentleman scolding through the window at Congo on the box.
“My dear Major, home's the place for you,” he said as he drew rein. “Is it possible that the news hasn't reached you yet?”
Remembering Congo, he spoke cautiously, but the Major, in his anger, tossed discretion to the winds.
“Reached me?—bless my soul!—do you take me for a ground hog?” he cried, thrusting his red face through the window. “I met Tom Bickels four miles back, and the horses haven't drawn breath since. But it's what I expected all along—I was just telling Congo so—it all comes from the mistaken tolerance of black Republicans. Let me open my doors to them to-day, and they'll be tempting Congo to murder me in my bed to-morrow.”
“Go 'way f'om yer, Ole Marster,” protested Congo from the box, flicking at the harness with his long whip.
The Governor looked a little anxiously at the negro, and then shook his head impatiently. Though a less exacting master than the Major, he had not the same childlike trust in the slaves he owned.
“Shall you not turn back?” he asked, surprised.
“Champe's there,” responded the Major, “so I came on for the particulars. A night in town isn't to my liking, but I can't sleep a wink until I hear a thing or two. You're going out, eh?”
“I'm riding home,” said the Governor, “it makes me uneasy to be away from Uplands.” He paused, hesitated an instant, and then broke out suddenly. “Good God, Major, what does it mean?”
The Major shook his head until his long white hair fell across his eyes.