"I reckon we's here, Mars'r Kipps," replied the driver with a grin from ear to ear.
"I reckon so too; but whar's here, Jupiter?"
"Donno whar you be, Mars'r!" exclaimed the negro, who seemed to think the foreman was joking with him.
"I don't know whar I am, Jube; do you?" replied Kipps, looking about him to identify anything in the surroundings.
"I know for sartin; we done come dis way befo', Mars'r. Dis is jest de place whar we done struck in de field to find de roleraid," replied the driver confidently. "Dis wot de fo'kes here call de hill road."
"But we didn't come over that log before."
"No, sar; dis nigger runn'd ag'in it, and twis' it round."
"I reckon we'd better camp here for the night, and wait for orders," said Kipps, "You can go the way you come, Lyons."
"I don't know that I can find my way," replied Deck. "I have been shut up in your wagon all the way, so that I could see nothing."
"You can foller the wagon-track, and that will fotch you out all right," added Lank.