Had his rider left the pony to its own guidance, perhaps it would have chosen the right road. In all likelihood he would have done so in the end; but, before determining on any particular line of action, he thought it better to look for the wheel-tracks of the carriage, that he knew must have passed in advance of him.
While thus cogitating, the silence occasioned by his momentary halt was all at once interrupted by a voice that sounded at his very side, and the tones of which he fancied were not new to him.
On suddenly turning in the saddle, and looking in the direction whence the voice appeared to proceed, what was his astonishment on beholding the negro boy—the veritable Quashie!
“Da, sa! das da crossin’ me you tell ’bout; you no take by de leff—dat lead to ole Jew penn; nor da right—he go to Mon’gew Cassel; de middle Massr Va’n road—he go straight na Moun’ Welc’m’.”
The young traveller sat for some moments without speaking, or making reply in any way—surprise, as by a spell, holding him silent. He had left the boy on the forward deck of the ship, to look after his luggage; and he had seen him—he could almost swear to it—still on board, as he rode away from the wharf! Moreover, he had ridden a stretch of many miles—most of the way at full gallop, and all of it at a pace with which no pedestrian could possibly have kept up! How, then, was he to account for the lad’s presence upon the spot?
This was the first question that occurred to him; and which he put to the darkey, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.
“Quashie foller young buckra—at him pony heels.”
The answer went but a short way towards enlightening the “young buckra;” since he still believed it utterly impossible for any human being to have travelled as fast as he had ridden.
“At the pony’s heels! What, my black skin! do you mean to say you have run all the way after me from the landing-place?”
“Ya, sa: dat hab Quashie do.”