"Reckon he'll be 'way all day, sar," said Jim, as we turned our horses to go.
"He ought to be resting against the ride of to-morrow. Where has he gone?"
"Dunno, sar, but reckon he'm gwine to fine Sam."
"Sam? Oh, he's the runaway the Colonel has advertised."
"Yas, sar, he'm 'way now more'n a monfh."
"How can Scip find him?"
"Dunno, sar. Scipio know most ebery ting—reckon he'll track him. He know him well, and Sam'll cum back ef he say he orter."
"Where do you think Sam is?"
"P'raps in de swamp."