“Arthur.”
Although the old negro was in a hurry to be off, he waited patiently while Arthur slowly wrote this note. To him writing was one of the most mysterious and difficult of arts; and, gazing admiringly at the young penman, he murmured to himself:
“What a fine lilly gen’l’man him be to be shuah. Him only twelve year ole; but settin dar an er writin like he was a hundred.”
When the note was finished it was pinned to the pillow of the cot bed, and, with a lingering look at the place that had sheltered him for a year, the child stepped out and softly closed the door. Then clasping his precious book tightly under his arm, and trustingly following the old negro, Arthur started on the wonderful journey that was to change the whole course of his life, though he was still ignorant of their destination.
When they were safely behind the barn, out of sight and hearing of the house; Uncle Phin stopped and said:
“Dere’s only one ting trubblin dis yeah ole woolly head. Kin you tell, Honey, fer shuah, what way de ribber ober yander is a runnin’?”
“Which, the Alleghany? Why, south, of course,” answered Arthur, wondering at the question.
“Dat’s what I lowed it done!” exclaimed the old man. “I knowed it didn’ run yeast, kase dat ar way de sun rise, and I knowed it didn’ run wes, kase dat ar way him a settin; but I wasn’ rightly shuah him didn’ run to de norf. I was figgerin all de time dough on him running to de souf, an now we’m git back to ole Ferginny easy an sartin.”
“To Virginia!” cried Arthur, in dismay. “Are we going to try and go way to Virginia, Uncle Phin?”
“Ob cose we is, Honey. We’se er gwine to Ferginny, an Dalecourt, an yo granpaw, an de lil ole cabin by the magnole tree. We is gwine to yo own shuah ’nough home, Honey.”