"Min' yo' eye dar, y'u ole buzzard!" as the mule touched the driver's cowhide boots with his hoof—
"Lie mould-ing in de clay?"
The truth flashed upon Flea. Chaney's sister, who had belonged to a planter living ten miles further down the river, had died a week ago, and word had been sent to Chaney that "a right smart chance o' clo'es an' blankets an' things" had been left to her by the deceased. Mrs. Grigsby had asked her husband that morning at breakfast if Dick could have a mule and a cart and a day's holiday, in order to fetch home his wife's legacy. The master had given his consent readily, and Dick was now on his way home, bearing his goods with him. He was, likewise, charged with all the particulars of his sister-in-law's sickness and death, with which he had it in his mind to regale his faithful Chaney. Behind him were the fertile low grounds; before him the road stretched straight into the heart of swamp and forest.
"I'm goin' home!"
wailed the chorus.
"I'm going home! I'm goin' ho-o-me!
I'm goin' ho-o-oome, to die no mo'!"
FLEA CREPT IN OVER THE BACKBOARD.
Crouching low, and treading as lightly as a panther, Flea quitted the bushes, stole up behind the cart as Dick threw up his head, to open his mouth back to the ears in the final howl of "ho-o-o-ome," and crept in over the backboard, unseen and unsuspected by the musician.
A feather bed filled the body of the cart, and into this the fugitive sank, pulling the "things" over her. How soft and how safe it felt! and how tired! tired! tired! she was, now that she had stopped running and need not fear pursuit. She had eaten nothing since breakfast, and was giddy and faint. She was very wet, too. In emptying the bucket upon her tormentor she had drenched herself to the skin.