“Marse Kelly, sah,” piped Uncle Tom, “where is yo’?”
“Here,” answered Kelly, coming forward. “What do you want?”
“Marse Partington, whut jess come in on his car, wants tuh speak wif yo’ er minit, Marse Kelly. He done sont me tuh fotch yuh.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say, suh. He jess say, ‘Tom, yo’ lazy niggah, run tuh de garage an’ tell Kelly Ah wants tuh see him right off.’ Dat’s whut he say, an’ ev’rybody knows Ah’s de hardest wo’kin’ man about de place. Lazy! Ah ain’t so spry as I uster be, but, by golly, Ah’s——”
“Where is Mr. Partington, Tom?” interrupted Kelly.
“Jess sta’tin’ fo’ de golf links, suh.”
Kelly started, and Uncle Tom started with him. Matt’s heart sank. If he could only have attracted the old negro’s attention there would have been some one to help him in making an escape.
While Matt lay on the floor, again furiously working at the ropes, Uncle Tom slipped stealthily back into the garage. His old rheumatic legs carried him with unusual rapidity out of sight toward the rear of the room, and Matt could hear him, a moment later, clambering up the stairs.
Brave old Uncle Tom! He knew of Matt’s plight, and was coming to help him.