Farmer Nye and Robert Munson remained standing with their heads uncovered, looking after the fugitives until the sound of their horses’ hoofs died away in the distance, and then they turned towards each other and impulsively grasped each the other’s hand, and shook hands as comrades.
Next Farmer Nye turned to the negroes who were squatting about the stable-yard, wondering, no doubt, at all they had seen and heard; and he told them to disperse to their quarters, and keep still tongues in their heads, if they wished to keep their heads on their shoulders.
“And now we’ll go back to the house and get a drop of home-brewed, and go to bed,” said the farmer, starting off at a brisk trot, and beckoning his young companion to follow him.
“I mean to manage so as Old Purley shall be made to believe as the prisoner escaped through his door,” said Munson, as he came up.
“That’ll be bully!” said the farmer.
They went back to the house, consulted the tall old-fashioned clock in the corner of the hall, found it was just eleven, and they took their drop of “home-brewed,” and went to rest.
Robert Munson, with design, threw himself down upon the mattress outside the carefully locked door of the chamber, from which he had helped his prisoners to escape. And being very much fatigued, he fell asleep, and slept long and late.
The first persons up in the house were the farmer’s daughter Kitty, and her old maiden aunt Molly.
They came down from their attic chambers and walked on tiptoes past the sleeping Munson, so as not to wake him. They went down stairs and had breakfast got ready, but had to wait very long before either the farmer or the young man appeared. When they did come down, however, and apologized for their tardiness, the women inquired for the other guests, and were told that they must not be disturbed.
The day passed slowly.