"De Yankees da hab got ter run,
Da cannot fight no mo',
We'll knock 'em wid de sword an' gun,
An' da'll surrender suah!"
It was the negro Sam who was doing the singing, while cleaning up Artie's horse, that had been tied up in a large box stall. The colored man was taking his time at the job, thinking he had the whole day before him.
Ere Artie caught sight of either Sam or the horse, he espied something else which made his heart bound with satisfaction. On a feed-box lay the gun Sam had handled while on guard in the sitting room. It was double-barrelled and loaded ready for use.
Making certain that the negro was the only person about the stables, the captain advanced cautiously and secured the firearm. He had it well in hand, when Sam swung around and discovered him.
"Who—wha—what—" began the slave, staring at him as though he were a ghost.
"Silence!" whispered Artie, and pointed the gun at the negro's head.
"Please don't go fo' to shoot me, Cap'n!"
"I won't, if you will remain quiet and answer my questions truthfully. If you attempt to cry out—"
"I won't cry out—'deed I won't!" was the trembling answer.
"All right. Now tell me the truth. Where is Major Gossley?"