"What do you think of him, Quin?" asked Dan, as he turned from Lily to consult with him.
"I tink dar's hope for Cyd," replied he, a queer smile playing about his mouth as he glanced at the anxious leader of the party.
"Do you? Then you understand the case—do you?"
"Yes, sar; I do, for sartin. My old massa used to hab jus such fits as dat," added Quin, his countenance beaming with intelligence.
"What did you do for him?"
"Notin, but put him to bed and let him sleep it off; I tink cold water good for him. Dat's what missus used to do for old massa when he hab it bery bad."
At the suggestion of Quin, Cyd was placed outside of the washboard, and half a dozen buckets of cold water were dashed upon him by the relentless hand of the negro nurse.
"Wha—wha—wha—" roared Cyd, as the first bucket fell upon him.
"See dar!" exclaimed Quin, triumphantly. "He done git better so quick. Gib him some more;" and he dashed another pailful upon him.
"Go away dar!" cried Cyd, trying to rise; but Dan held him fast.