“Well, uncle, where are they taking us?”
He replied:
“Well, sah, I couldn't rightly say.”
“But you could guess, if you tried, couldn't you?”
“Yes sah.”
He gave a quick look around to see if the door behind him was so securely shut that he could not be overheard by the Rebels inside the car, his dull, stolid face lighted up as a negro's always does in the excitement of doing something cunning, and he said in a loud whisper:
“Dey's a-gwine to take you to Wilmington—ef dey kin get you dar!”
“Can get us there!” said I in astonishment. “Is there anything to prevent them taking us there?”
The dark face filled with inexpressible meaning. I asked:
“It isn't possible that there are any Yankees down there to interfere, is it?”