“Well, sir, they’re all mortal enemies, but I’m so glad to hear it that I say Amen with all my heart; but is it true?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure; it’s true enough!” cried Fred, with his eyes full of the joy he felt. “Samson, I don’t know how to contain myself—how to be thankful enough! Poor old Scar! I should never have felt happy again.”
Samson’s iron pot-like cap was tilted off again, and he scratched his head on the other side as he looked at Fred with a quaint smile upon his countenance.
“Well, sir, all this here puzzles me. It do—it do really. These here are our enemies, and we’ve been taught to smite ’em hip and thigh; and because we find they’re living, instead of dead, here’s you ready to jump out of your skin, and me feeling as if I could shake hands with old Nat. Of course I wouldn’t; you see, I couldn’t do it. Indeed, if he was here I should hit him, but I feel as if I should shake hands all the same.”
“What will be best to do, Samson?”
“Do, sir? If you’re right, get off as soon as we can.”
“And them wanting our help.”
“Tchah! They don’t want our help. They want us to be out of their way. If they come and catch us here, sir, how do we know but what they may turn savage, and try to serve us out?”
“Samson, you are talking nonsense,” said Fred, angrily; and he ran to the hole again and called aloud the names of those he believed to be in hiding, his words echoing and whispering along the dark passage, till Samson made him jump by touching him on the shoulder just as he was listening vainly for a reply.
“Don’t do that, sir.”