"O, my master will kill me," whimpered the negro, trembling violently. "If I don't tell you every thing, you will kill me; and if I do, my master will kill me, too; so I shall die any way."
"No you won't; just tell me the truth, and I'll see that no one harms you. Your master need know nothing about it; we shall not be likely to tell him. Now, what is there out in the country that you go to see so often?"
"Torpedoes," replied the negro, in a low voice, gazing about the barn with a frightened air, as if he expected to see his master appear before him in some magical manner.
"Torpedoes!" repeated Frank. "Where are they?"
"In a little creek about six miles from here."
"Who is making them? Are there any rebels there?"
"Yes; there is a colonel, major, and lieutenant there; but my master's black men are doing the work."
By adroit questioning—for the negro was very careful to answer no further than he was asked—Frank finally gleaned the whole particulars. One piece of information troubled him not a little, and that was, an attempt was soon to be made to blow up the Trenton. He also learned the number of the torpedoes, the manner of operating with them, and other particulars that will soon appear. He was then as much puzzled as ever, and paced the floor of the barn, undecided how to act. The time set for the sinking of the Trenton was Friday night, (it was then Thursday), and as information of her movements was every day conveyed to the rebels, the question was, how to keep them in ignorance that their plot had been discovered, so that the work might be carried on as usual. There was, apparently, but one way, and that was to hold out inducements to the negro.
"See here," Frank suddenly exclaimed, "you are between two fires now."
"I know that," replied the negro, well aware that he was in a most precarious situation; "I know that. But what am I to do?"