“Wha’ good dem safety banks, Marse Rob? Dey calls dem safety but dey’s plum dangerous. Fus’ ting yo’ know dey bus’ up. Ah had a cousin down south. Some colored men dey start a bank down dere. Mah cousin he puts in five dollars reposit. ’Bout a munf afterward he done go to draw it out and what you think dat no-good black-trash what run de bank tole him?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, Jumbo,” answered Rob.
“Why, dey said de interest jes’ nacherally done eat dat fibe dollars up!”
As Rob was still laughing over Jumbo’s tragic tale there came a sudden shout from ahead.
Then a pistol shot split the darkness. It was followed by another and another. They proceeded from the knot of revenue men who, with their prisoners, were a short distance in advance.
“Gollyumptions! Wha’s de mattah now?” exclaimed Jumbo, sprinting forward.
A dark form flashed by him and vanished, knocking Jumbo flat. Behind the fleeing form came running the revenue men.
“It’s Black Bart! He’s escaped!” cried one.
Rob joined the chase. But although they could hear crashing of branches ahead, the pursuit had to be given over after a while. In the woods he knew so well the revenues were no match for the wily Black Bart. With downcast faces they returned to where the other prisoners, guarded by two of the officers, had been left.
“I’d rather have lost the whole boiling than let Black Bart slip through my fingers,” bemoaned the leader, “wonder how he did it?”