Scarce has the last stroke ceased to vibrate on the still night air, when a voice is heard; one that has not hitherto taken part in the deliberations. It sounds as though coming up from the road gate.
“Mass Woodley in da?” are the words spoken interrogatively; the question addressed generally to the group gathered in front of the house. “Yes: he’s here,” simultaneously answer several.
“Kin I peak a wud wif you, Mass Woodley?” again asks the inquirer at the wicket.
“Sartinly,” says the hunter, separating from the others, and striding off towards the entrance.
“I reck’n I know that voice,” he adds, on drawing near the gate. “It’s Blue Bill, ain’t it?”
“Hush, Mass’ Woodley! For Goramity’s sake doan peak out ma name. Not fo’ all de worl let dem people hear it. Ef dey do, dis nigger am a dead man, shoo.”
“Darn it, Bill; what’s the matter? Why d’ye talk so mysteerous? Is thar anythin’ wrong? Oh! now I think o’t, you’re out arter time. Never mind ’bout that; I’ll not betray you. Say; what hev ye kim for?”
“Foller me, Mass Woodley; I tell yer all. I dasent tay hya, less some ob dem folk see me. Les’ go little way from de house, into de wood groun’ ober yonner; den I tell you wha fotch me out. Dis nigger hab someting say to you, someting berry patickler. Yes, Mass Woodley, berry patickler. ’Tarn a matter ob life an’ def.”
Sime does not stay to hear more; but, lifting the latch, quietly pushes open the gate, and passes out into the road. Then following the negro, who flits like a shadow before him, the two are soon standing among some bushes that form a strip of thicket running along the roadside.
“Now, what air it?” asks Woodley of the coon-hunter, with whom he is well acquainted—having often met him in his midnight rambles.