The replies to this query came so fast and thick, that we are unable to put them all upon paper.
"He stole me fader!"
"He took me mother from Fildelfy and sold her down south."
"He kidnapped my little boy."
"Dam kidnapper! he stole my wife!"
"I knows him, I does—he does work for da man dat sells niggas in Baltimore."
"Don't you know how he tuk de yaller gal away from Fildelfy, making b'lieve dat her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her?"
Such were a few of the responses to old Royal's question. It was evident that Bloodhound was known. And, although his hair had grown gray in the practice of all the virtues, it did not give him much pleasure to find that he was known; for he felt that he was in the hands of the wicked.
"Don't hurt me, niggers, don't hurt me! I wasn't after any of you, upon my word, I wasn't. I've allays been good to the niggers, when I could get a chance,—don't hurt me!"
"Oh! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will we niggas?" replied old Royal.