The place had a suspicious appearance, and a pack of hounds in full cry rushed from the kitchen, and, while in the act of leaping the stile and palings, were arrested almost in mid air by a chuffy voice crying from within:
"Hya! Down! Spitch!"
The whole pack meekly sneaked back to the house, whining low, and a few blows of a switch and short howls within completed the excitement.
"What place is this?" asked Owen Daw.
"Devil Jim Clark's," said Sorden.
The dwelling stood about forty yards back from the road, drawing nearly into the cover of the woods, and its little yard was made cavernous by thick-planted paper-mulberry and maple trees, while a line of cherry-trees and an old pole-well rose along the road and hedge. As they rode to the rear of the house a little dormer window, like a snail, crawled low along the roof, and a light was shining from it.
"Devil Jim's business-office," nodded Sorden.
"What's his business?" asked Levin, freshly.
"Niggers. He keeps 'em up thar between the garret and the roof—sometimes in the cellar."
"Does he want a business-office for that?"