“Yes, massa,” cried the big black.
“Take off their irons.—And if you all behave yourselves you’ll never have to wear them again.”
The basket was at hand; the assistant brought out the little anvil, and the task of filing and then drawing out the rivets began, with the dogs looking on.
“As for you, my lad,” said the settler, “I can see you look weak and ill; you can take it easy for a few days till you get up your strength.”
“But you will make some inquiries, sir?” pleaded Nic.
“Not one, boy. I know enough. I take the word of the king’s people; so say no more.”
He turned his back upon his white slave, and it was as if the old confusion of intellect had suddenly come back: Nic’s brain swam, black specks danced before his eyes, and he staggered and would have fallen but for Pete Burge’s arm, as the man caught him and whispered:
“Hold up, Master Nic; never say die!”