"Good enough nigga, Scip! Why, I tell you he's a splendid fellow; just as true as steel. He's been North with the Colonel, often, and the Abolitionists have tried to get him away; he knew he could go, but wouldn't budge an inch."
"I knew he wouldn't," said the darky, a pleasurable gleam passing through his eyes; "dat sort don't run; dey face de music!"
"Why don't they run? What do you mean by facing the music?"
"Nuffin' massa—only dey'd rather stay har."
"Come, Scip, you've played this game long enough. Tell me, now, what that look you gave each other when you shook hands meant."
"What look, massa? Oh! I s'pose 'twar 'cause we'd both heerd ob each oder afore."
"'Twas more than that, Scip. Be frank; you know you can trust me."
"Wal, den, massa," he replied hesitatingly, adding, after a short pause, "de ole woman called you a Yankee, sar—you can guess."
"If I should guess, 't would be that it meant mischief."
"It don't mean mischief, sar," said the darky, with a tone and air that would not have disgraced a Cabinet officer; "it mean only Right and Justice."