"Where is he?"
"Deslow, I believe, has deserted!" said Stackridge.
"Ah! What makes you think so?"
"Well, I've watched him right close, and I've seen a good deal of what's been working in his mind. He's one o' them fools that believe Slavery is God; and he can't get over it. Pomp, here, saved our lives in the fire the other night; and Deslow couldn't stand it. To owe his life to a runaway slave—that was too dreadful!" said Stackridge with savage sarcasm. "He's a man that would rather be roasted alive, and see his country ruined, I suppose, than do anything that might damage in the least degree his divine institution! There's the difference 'twixt him and me. Sence slavery has made war agin' the Union, and turned us out of our homes, I say, by the Lord! let it go down to hell, as it desarves!"
"You use strong language, neighbor!"
"I do; and it's time, I reckon, when strong language, and strong actions too, are called fur. You hate a man that you've befriended, and that's turned traitor agin' ye, worse'n you hate an open inemy, don't ye? Wal, I've befriended slavery, and it's turned traitor agin' me, and all I hold most sacred in this world, and I'm jest getting my eyes open to it; and so I say, let it go down! I've no patience with such men as Deslow, and I'm glad, on the whole, he's gone. He don't belong with us anyhow. I say, any man that loves any kind of property, or any party, or institution, better than he loves the old Union"—Stackridge said this with tears of passion in his eyes,—"such a man belongs with the rebels, and the sooner we sift 'em out of our ranks the better."
"When did he go?"
"Some of us were out foraging again last night; Withers and Deslow with the rest. Tell what he said to you, Withers."
The group of fugitives had gathered about the bed on which the old clergyman sat. Withers was scraping his long horny nails with a huge jackknife.
"He says to me, says he, 'Withers, we've got inter a bad scrape.' 'How so?' says I; for I thought we war gittin' out of a right bad scrape when we got out of that temp'rary jail. 'The wust hain't happened yet,' says he. 'That's bad,' says I, 'fur it's allus good fur a feller to know the wust has happened.' And so I told him a little story. Says I, 'When I was a little boy 'bout that high, I was helping my daddy one day secure some hay. Wal, it looked like rain, and we put in right smart till the fust sprinkles begun to fall,—great drops, big as ox-eyes,—and they skeert me, for I war awful 'fraid of gittin' wet. So what did I do but run and git under some boards. My daddy war so busy he didn't see me, till bime-by he come that way, rolling up the hay-cocks to kill, and looked, and thar I war under the pile o' boards, curled up like a hedgehog to keep dry. 'Josh,' says he, 'what ye doin' thar? Why ain't ye to work?' ''Fraid o' gittin' wet!' says I. 'Pon that he didn't say a word, but jest come and took me by the collar, and led me to a little run close by, and jest casoused me in the water, head over heels, and then jest pulled me out agin. 'Now,' says he, 'ye can go to work, and you won't be the leastest mite afeard o' gittin' wet. Wal, 'twas about so. I didn't mind the rain, arter that. 'Wal, Deslow,' says I, 'that larnt me a lesson; and ever sence I've always thought 'twas a good thing fur us, when trouble comes, to have the wust happen, and know it's the wust, fur then we'se prepared fur't, and ain't no longer to be skeert by a little shower.' That's what I said to Deslow." And Withers continued scraping his nails.