“Yes; slacken the rope sufficiently to let him reach the man.”
“He’ll make a dash for it, Master George,” grumbled Morgan.
He was right, for the boy did make a dash as soon as he saw that the rope which tethered him to the tree was loosened, but only to creep close up to the negro, thrust his arm under his neck, and press close to his side.
“I thought so,” said my father. “Draw that rope from the shackles.”
“What, undo him altogether, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, all right, Master George,” grumbled Morgan to me. “I could have leathered the young imp into shape, and made a labourer of him in time; but if your father likes to waste his money it is no business of mine.”
My father’s back was towards us, and he was standing at some little distance so as not to startle the boy, who rose again, crouched, and looked wildly at us, as the rope which had been simply passed through the iron shackles began to run through a link till the end was drawn out, and run over the ground to where Morgan stood grumbling and coiling up the rope.
“No, he will not,” said my father, gravely. “There is something stronger than hempen rope to hold him, George, evidently. Unless I am much mistaken, he will not leave the poor fellow’s side.”
“Ah, well, sir,” said Morgan, as he hung the rope on the stump of a branch, “they’re your niggers, and niggers is niggers. I shouldn’t trust ’em, and they’ll cut and run.”