"Yessum," said Blue Dave, scratching his head; "dat w'at I come fer. Mars. George gwine ter stay at de Kendrick Place ter-night. I speck he in bed by dis time," he added, reassuringly.
"His horse has come home without buggy or harness. Is my son hurt? Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. What has happened to him?"
How could the poor negro—how could anybody—know what a whirlwind of yearning affection, dread, and anxiety was raging behind these cool, level tones?
"Mistiss, I tell you de trufe: Mars. George is sorter hurted, but he ain't hurted much. I met 'im in de road, en I tuck 'n' tole 'im dey wuz a freshet in Murder Creek; but he des laugh at me, en he driv' in des like dey wa'n't no water dar; en den w'en he make his disappearance, I tuck 'n' splunge in atter 'im, en none too soon, n'er, kaze he got strucken on de head wid a log, an w'en I fotch 'im out, he 'uz all dazzle up like. Yit he ain't hurted much, Mistiss."
"What is your name?" the prim old lady asked.
"Blue Dave, ma'am."
"The runaway?"
The negro hesitated, looked around, and then hung down his head. He knew the calm, fearless eyes of this gentlewoman were upon him; he felt the influence of her firm tones. She repeated her question—
"Are you Blue Dave, the runaway?"
"Yessum."
The answer seemed to satisfy the lady. She turned and called Eliza, the housemaid.