“Ya, Mass Woodley, I tell you ebberyting; all de sarkunistances c’nected wif de case.”
In ten minutes after, Simeon Woodley is made acquainted with everything the coon-hunter knows; the latter having given him full details of all that occurred on that occasion when his coon-chase was brought to such an unsatisfactory termination.
To the backwoodsman it brings no surprise. He has already arrived at a fixed conclusion, and Bill’s revelation is in correspondence with it.
On hearing it, he but says:—
“While runnin’ off, yur master let fall a letter, did he? You picked it up, Bill? Ye’ve gob it?”
“Hya’s dat eyedentikil dockyment.”
The negro hands over the epistle, the photograph inside.
“All right, Bill! I reck’n this oughter make things tol’ably clur. Now, what d’ye want me to do for yurself?”
“Lor, Mass Woodley, you knows bess. I’se needn’t tell ye, dat ef ole Eph’m Darke hear wha dis nigger’s been, an’ gone, an’ dud, de life ob Blue Bill wuldn’t be wuth a ole coon-skin—no; not so much as a corn-shuck. I’se get de cowhide ebbery hour ob de day, and de night too. I’se get flog to def, sa’tin shoo.”
“Yur right thar, I reck’n,” rejoins the hunter; then continues, reflectingly, “Yes; you’d be sarved putty saveer, if they war to know on’t. Wal, that mustn’t be, and won’t. So much I kin promise ye, Bill. Yur evydince wouldn’t count for nuthin’ in a law court, nohow. Tharfor, we won’t bring ye forrad; so don’t you be skeeart. I guess we shan’t wan’t no more testymony, as thar ain’t like to be any crosskwestenin’ lawyers in this case. Now; d’you slip back to yur quarters, and gi’e yurself no furrer consarn. I’ll see you don’t git into any trouble. May I be damned ef ye do!”