Bob fell asleep that night while laying his plans for the following day, and being wearied with his long tramp, he slept soundly; but he was up by the time the first gray streaks of dawn were seen in the east, and accompanied by a decrepit old negro, who led a mule as old and infirm as himself, set out for another day in the woods.
“Mister Bob,” said the negro, as they made their way across the cornfield, “does yer know dat somebody was a tryin’ fur to steal dem chickens dis mornin’?”
“No,” replied Bob. “I didn’t know it.”
“Yes, sar, dar was. Dis mornin’ I heared a fursin’ out dar an’ I says to myself: ‘Bijah, dar’s an owl gwine fur dem chickens.’ So I gets up an’ goes to de do’ fur to shoo him off, an’ I sees somebody in de tree whar de chickens was a roostin’. So I goes up mighty quiet an’ still an’ he nebber sees nor hears me till I was plumb under de tree; den he draps and I retch fur him. But I aint spry like I was in my young days—no, sar, I aint—an’ I nebber cotch him; but I skeared him mighty bad, an’ ye jest oughter see dat feller hump hisself.”
“He ran fast, did he?”
“O, yes, sar.”
“Did he take any chickens with him?”
“No, sar. I done made him drap dem.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“O, yes, sar; dat biggest Ebans boy—Dan Ebans. Yes, sar, dat’s who he was. Mister Bob, ’pears to me dat de law oughter cotch some of dem white trash, kase dey’s a heap wusser den de niggers ’bout stealin’. Yes, sar, dey is so.”