Chapter XXXIV.
THE ORDEAL.
When Levin Dennis awoke in the bottom of the old wagon it was being rapidly driven, and Van Dorn's voice from the driver's seat was heard to say, without its usual lisp and Spanish interjection:
"Whitecar, is your brother at Dover sure of his game?"
"Cock sure, Cap'n. Got 'em tree'd! Best domestic stock in the town thar, an' the purtiest yaller gals: I know that suits you, Cap'n!"
"Have they arms?"
"Not a trigger. We trap 'em at one of their 'festibals.' No, sir, niggers won't scrimmage."
"We assemble at Devil Jim Clark's," said Van Dorn, and passed by with a crack of his whip.
Levin, whom some friendly hand had wrapped in a bearskin coat—he had seen one like it upon Van Dorn—next heard the slaver speak to another party he had overtaken: