“Now say, 'Yours truly, with respect,'” said he, and so my task was ended.
Three days later he came to me in high spirits, with a letter in his hand.
“I'm goin' to see Fannie to-morrow,” he said, in a whisper. “If Sam Whittemore can do anything for you, I want to know it.”
His opportunity came that evening. I was doing my chores in the barn. Suddenly Sam burst upon me.
“They're after you!” he whispered.
“Who?” I asked.
“Two men in a buggy—they've heard you were here.”
I had told him of my trouble, and now it threatened to engulf me. Would I give myself up and go home with the officers? I could not bear the thought of going home like a felon. It would kill my mother. This all flashed through my brain in a jiffy, while the dusk air seemed to be full of chains and handcuffs. I started to climb a ladder.
“No use,” said he, as he picked up an empty sack. “They know you're here. Get into this sack.”
A wagon stood on the barn floor loaded with potatoes, in big sacks. Sam was holding the empty sack. I stepped into it and sat with my chin between my knees while he stuffed a bundle of straw all around me. Then he cut two holes near the top of the sack, to give me air and an outlook, tied it above my head, and flung me on the load of potatoes. It was all done in the shake of a lamb's tail, as they used to say.