He glanced about at me again, vainly endeavoring to decipher my expression in the gloom.
"De Illinois ribber, boss; what yer hope fer ter find thar?"
"A certain man I've heard about. Did you ever happen to hear a white man mentioned who lives near there? His name is Amos Shrunk?"
I could scarcely distinguish his eyes, but I could feel them. I thought for a moment he would not answer.
"Yer'l surely excuse me, sah," he said at last, humbly, his voice with a note of pleading in it. "Ah's feelin' friendly 'nough, an' all dat, sah, but still yer mus' 'member dat Ah's talkin' ter a perfict stranger. If yer wud sure tell me furst just whut yer was aimin' at, then maybe Ah'd know a heap mor'n Ah do now."
"I guess you are right, Sam. I'll tell you the whole of it. I am endeavoring to help this young woman to escape from those men back yonder. You must know why they were there; no doubt you overhead them talk coming up?"
"Yas, sah; Massa Donaldson he was goin' up fer ter serve sum papers fer Massa Kirby, so he cud run off de Beaucaire niggers. But dis yere gal, she ain't no nigger—she's just a white pusson."
"She is a slave under the law," I said, gravely, as she made no effort to move, "and the man, Kirby, claims her."
I could see his mouth fly open, but the surprise of this statement halted his efforts at speech.
"That explains the whole situation," I went on. "Now will you answer me?"