"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority of the congress, showing their teeth and shaking their woolly heads together.
"Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole massa, dat you lick last night," cried a voice.
"Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, with dignity. "Suffis it to say, dat about five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry from de house whar he'd been licked, de night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib him some brandy likewise. His back was berry sore—"
Here one of the gentlemen broke in with a parody of a well-known song—
"Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny—
My back am berry sore—"
He began, in rich Ethiopian bass.
"Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly, yet, showing his white teeth in a broad grin. "He am in New York at the present time, at de Astor House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun' am with him—"
"De kidnapper!"
"De nigger-catcher!"
Cries like these resounded from twenty throats; and by the way in which knives and pistols were produced and brandished, it was evident that there was a cordial feeling—almost too cordial—entertained by the congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound.