“They! Who?” said Hopkins, starting up.
“The mob. Don’t you hear them?”
Hopkins listened, and his hair seemed to rise on end when he caught the low hum of conversation outside, which grew louder and more distinct as a party of men approached the house. Enjoining silence upon his companion Hopkins drew himself slowly and painfully over the hay to the end of the loft, and looked out of a convenient knot hole. Stanley, who watched all his movements with the keenest interest, trembled all over when Hopkins held up all his fingers to indicate that there were ten of them. He also made other motions signifying that the rioters were armed and that they had brought ropes with them. Just then there was a movement in the room below, and Robinson opened the door and stepped out to wait the mob.
“Say, nigger,” exclaimed one of the leaders, “where are those boys who were here last night?”
Robinson replied that he didn’t know where they were. They had been taken to the city early that morning, and he thought they were in the hospital.
“Were they both hurt?” asked one of the rioters.
“Yes; one had a bullet through his leg, and the other had been shot in the foot.”
“We wish those bullets had been through their heads,” said the leader. “It’s well for them that they got away, for we came here on purpose to hang them.”
“Dat would serve ’em just right,” said Robinson. “Dey ain’t got no call to come down hyar an’ go to foolin’ wid de workin’ man when he wants his bread an’ butter. No, sar, dey ain’t.”
The boys in the loft awaited the result of this conference with fear and trembling. They fully expected that the rioters would search the house and drag them from their place of concealment, but the negro answered all their questions so readily and appeared to be so frank and truthful, that their suspicions were not aroused. When Stanley, who kept a close watch of his friend, saw him kiss his hand toward the knot-hole, he drew a long breath of relief, for he knew that the rioters were going away.