After a while’s reflection, he concluded that his most prudent plan would be to wait for the young buckra’s return and tell him the best tale he could.
To say he had been searching for him, and that was how he had spent the time—was the story that suggested itself to the troubled imagination of Quashie.
To account for the disappearance of the cognac—for he had drunk every drop of it—the darkey had bethought him of another little bit of fabrication—suggested, no doubt, by the mischance that had befallen the bottle of claret. He intended to tell the grand buckra—and “thrape” it down his throat if need be—that he, the buckra, had left out the stopper of the flask, and that the brandy had followed the example set by the “heel-tap” of wine.
Thus fortified with a plausible story, Quashie awaited the return of the sportsman.
The sky cleared after a time, but no buckra came; nor yet, after a considerable spell of fine weather had transpired, did he make his appearance.
Quashie became impatient, and slightly anxious. Perhaps the English “gemman” had lost himself in the woods; and if so, what would be done to him, the guide? Massa Vaughan would be sure to punish him. In fancy he could hear the crack of the cart-whip resounding afar off over the hills.
After waiting a while longer, he determined to put an end to his anxiety, by going in search of the sportsman; and taking up the empty bag, along with the equally empty flask, and hunting-knife, he set forth.
He had seen Mr Smythje go towards the glade, and so far he could follow his trail; but once arrived at the open ground, he was completely at fault.
He had not the slightest idea of what direction to take.
After pausing to reflect, he took the right—that which would conduct him to the dead-wood, which was visible from the point where he had entered the glade.