"No—not just yet, not till I've seen your master. And look here, Jake! I don't want any one to know that I am here except your master. You must tell him to come down without delay, and without any one suspecting that you went back to the house on that errand. Put this in your pocket, and let me see that you carry my message discreetly."
In the attempt to murder me I had not been robbed; and I was able to sharpen the zeal, also the intelligence, of my intended messenger by the douceur of a dollar. I gave it less for this, than to impress him with the importance of the errand, and so secure greater caution in its accomplishment.
With some additional instructions I dismissed him; and taking seat upon a log under cover of some underwood, I awaited the coming of Henry Woodley.
I little expected that before seeing him, I should shake hands with his brother Walter. Yet such was the reality!
While sitting upon the log reflecting how much of my story should be told to my late host, and how much for the time kept back, I heard the deep sonorous bark that announces the "high pressure" steamboat. Looking up the river I saw the boat itself, rounding a sharp bend a little way above the landing.
When nearly opposite, her pilot-bell rung, her paddles ceased to move, and she lay to under hissing steam.
Presently a yawl with three men in it, shot out from her stern—two of them rowing, the third evidently a passenger.
I had scarce time to think who it might be, when the bow of the row-boat struck against the bank, and the passenger stepped ashore, carrying a carpet-bag along with him. I recognized the young Tennessean cotton-planter, Walter Woodley.
He did not so easily recognize me, and when he at length discovered who was the mud-bedaubed individual that saluted him, I need scarce say that his astonishment was extreme.
His story was easily told. He was on his way to New Orleans to look after the disposal of his cotton crop; and was merely making stop to see his sister and brother, intending to go on by the next boat.