But we have followed our black Munchausen through the least wonderful part of his story, as narrated by himself; and further than this, for reasons already hinted, we dare not venture, the facts of the narrative here beginning to grow tame again, and the narrator's fancies wide. So we shall leave our lion to go on roaring it out into the ears of his colored admirers to his heart's satisfaction, till he is empty and they are full. At last, after blowing and puffing for nearly an hour in the popular ear, the windy story, tapering off with a little facetious gas designed for the ladies, found its way to an end, and dismissing his audience with a majestic wave of his war-cap, Big Black Burl came down from the rostrum.
Chapter XV.
How Big Black Burl Sewed it Up in His War-cap.
By the time the Fighting Nigger had made an end of blowing his trumpet, the shadows of the long summer twilight had deepened into the shades of night, reminding him that it was high time he should be looking after the comfort of his captive guest. While the blowing and roaring had been going on from the stump, the young Indian had remained seated on the cabin door-sill, tranquilly smoking his pipe, the odorous contents of which showed forth at long and regular intervals in a dull-red glow from the dusky shadow of the cabin-shed. Taking him in, Burl hospitably yielded up to his guest his own bed—the bear-skin bed he was so proud of and loved so much to sleep on—spreading for himself instead a buffalo-rug on the floor. In a little while the spirit of sleep had descended on every weary soul in the fort—all save the wakeful Grumbo, who, crouched on his bear-skin out there under the shed, maintained, as was his habit, vigilant watch through the livelong night.
Now that his great adventure had been brought to a happy end, the Fighting Nigger must once more doff his bear-skin cap—the cap of war—and don, instead, his coon-skin cap—the cap of peace; hang his battle-ax up on the wall, and lay his hand to the plow; muzzle his war-dog, and bridle his plow-horse; and leave the war-path in the forest to tread the peace-path in the field.
Accordingly, early next morning, having duly discharged his office as host for the time being, and left his guest to a pipe of tobacco and quiet meditation, Burl was about betaking himself to his labors in the field, when his little master came running out to his cabin with word that Miss Jemima wished to speak with him before he left the fort. Respectfully uncapping himself even before reaching her presence, the faithful fellow came, and showing the left shoulder and bushy head of him from round the edge of the door and looking side-long into the room where his mistress was sitting, said in answer to her summons, "Yes 'um."
"I have sent for you, Burl," began Mrs. Reynolds with kindly seriousness of tone and manner, "to tell you how thankful I am for the good and brave part you have done by me and my poor fatherless boy, and to reward you in the best way I can." Here she paused.
"Yes 'um," said Burl, not knowing what else to say, and looking hard at Grumbo, who, as if he had been summoned too, had followed his master, and now, seated on his haunches in the door-way, was listening with grave attention to what was going on—hoping, no doubt, that severe measures were at last about to be taken with regard to the red barbarian.