They wrapped it all up carefully in a bundle, and then, watching their chances, they slipped off from Tot and the little darkies, as well as from Mammy, and carried it to their guest in the pick-room. He was truly glad to see them, and to get the nice breakfast they had brought; and the little girls, having now lost all fear of him, sat down on a pile of cotton to have a talk with him.

“Did you always b’long to Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith?” asked Diddie.

“No, honey; he bought me fum de Powell ’state, an’ I ain’t b’longst ter him no mo’n ’boutn fo’ years.”

“Is he got any little girls?” asked Dumps.

“No, missy; his wife an’ two chil’en wuz bu’nt up on de steamboat gwine ter New ’Leans, some twenty years ergo; an’ de folks sez dat’s wat makes ’im sich er kintankrus man. Dey sez fo’ dat he usen ter hab meetin’ on his place, an’ he wuz er Christyun man hisse’f; but he got mad ’long er de Lord caze de steamboat bu’nt up, an’ eber sence dat he’s been er mighty wicked man; an’ he won’t let none er his folks sarve de Lord; an’ he don’t ’pyear ter cyar fur nuffin’ ’cep’n hit’s money. But den, honey, he ain’t no born gemmun, nohow; he’s jes only er oberseer wat made ’im er little money, an’ bought ’im er few niggers; an’, I tells yer, he makes ’em wuck, too; we’se got ter be in de fiel’ long fo’ day; an’ I ober-slep mysef tudder mornin’ an he Wuz cussin’ an’ er gwine on, an’ ’lowed he wuz gwine ter whup me, an’ so I des up an’ runned erway fum ’im, an’ now I’se skyeert ter go back; an’, let erlone dat, I’se skyeert ter stay; caze, efn he gits Mr. Upson’s dogs, dey’ll trace me plum hyear; an’ wat I is ter do I dunno; I jes prays constunt ter de Lord. He’ll he’p me, I reckon, caze I prays tree times eby day, an’ den in ’tween times.”

“Is your name Brer Dan’l?” asked Dumps, who remembered Uncle Bob’s story of Daniel’s praying three times a day.

“No, honey, my name’s Pomp; but den I’m er prayin’ man, des same ez Danl’ wuz.”

“Well, Uncle Pomp,” said Diddie, “you stay here just as long as you can, an’ I’ll ask papa to see Mr. Tight-fis’ Smith, an’ he’ll get—”

“Lor’, chile,” interrupted Uncle Pomp, “don’t tell yer pa nuf’n ’boutn it; he’ll sho’ ter sen’ me back, an’ dat man’ll beat me half ter def; caze I’se mos’ loss er week’s time now, an’ hit’s er mighty ’tickler time in de crap.”

“But, s’posin’ the dogs might come?” said Dumps.