"Well, I know who you are," he said; "you are Blue Dave, and you've come to tell me that you want me to carry you to jail, where Bill Brand can get his hands on you."
The negro was thunderstruck. "To' de Lord, Mars. George! how you know who I is?"
"Why, I know by your looks. You've got horns and a club foot. That's the way the Old Boy fixes himself."
"Now, Mars. George," said the negro in a grieved tone, "ef you could see me good you wouldn't set dar en say I'm a bad-lookin' nigger."
"Are you really Blue Dave?" the young man asked, dropping his bantering tone and speaking seriously.
"Yasser, Mars. George; I'm dat ve'y nigger."
"What do you want with me?"
"I des wanter tell you, Mars. George, dat dey's a freshet come fum 'bove, en Murder Creek is 'way out'n hits banks. You can't cross dar wid no hoss en buggy dis night."
The young man reflected a moment. He was more interested in the attitude of the negro than he was in the extent of the freshet or the danger of an attempt to cross the creek.
"I've a knack of crossing Murder Creek in a freshet," he said. "But why should you want to keep me out of it?"