In the evening of the fourth day I made bold to enter a negro's hut, always the refuge and the asylum of the outcast, and appealed to the generosity of an enormous fellow who reminded me of Washington. I told him I was a fugitive fleeing from the wrath of political enemies, and my story moved his simple and unsuspecting heart. He gave me food and a bed.
Thus I wandered night after night, heavy of heart, and yet with a prayer of gratitude. At last I reached the State of Illinois. One day in a cross-roads grocery where I had halted to split wood for a bit of cheese, I saw a handbill posted on the door. It set forth the enormity of my crime, attempted to describe me—tall, dark brown eyes, hair almost black, a straight nose and about thirty years of age; and they had paid me the compliment to add the word "graceful." They had added, also, that the sum of six thousand dollars would be paid for my capture. The groceryman and his friends were talking politics; and doubtless they had never given more than a moment's thought to a murder committed away down in Mississippi.
I believed that a city was my safest refuge, and I made straight for Chicago. There I might secure some sort of employment, and, under another name, earn money enough to take me to the wilds of the unknown West. I felt that a light would one day be thrown upon the mystery. But I knew that they would hang me, if they could, and then marvel at the light, should it ever come. I appreciated the fact that the hunt for me would not be given up. Six thousand dollars serve well to keep the blood of justice circulating.
I arrived in Chicago one evening, having spent more than two months on the devious path that led from Bolanyo; and the first attention to mark my arrival was the stare of a policeman. This threw me into a tremor and a cold sweat of fear; but he passed on without speaking to me, and I turned aside to walk slowly, and then almost to run in the opposite direction.
My appearance was against me. I was almost ragged, and I knew that it would be useless to apply for any except the meanest sort of employment. Times were hard, and even day labor was not easy to find. But at last, after a week of persistent application, of hunger, of shivering in the raw air, I was put to work in a livery-stable. They called me a "chambermaid," a "happy hit" in which they found no end of fun. Sometimes their jokes were rough, but I bore them with a pretense of good nature, passing on to my task; and one day my zeal found reward in the notice of the proprietor.
"Jarvis," said he, "you go about your work as if your mind is on it. Do you reckon you've got sense enough to drive a cab?"
"I think so, Sir."
"Well, have your stubble shaved off and I'll give you a trial."
"I'd rather not have the beard off, Sir. I have trouble with my throat."
"Well, we'll try you, anyway."