“Hush, Pete, not a word! We are trying to save you,” and Carson removed his hand.
“Who dat? Oh, my God, who dat talkin'?” Pete gasped.
“Carson Dwight,” said the young man. “Now hush, and hurry.”
“Thank God it you, Marse Carson—oh, Marse Carson, Marse Carson, you ain't gwine ter let um kill me!”
“No, you are safe, Pete.”
In a rush they now bore him round the corner, and then pausing at the door of the store, to be certain that no extraneous eye was on them, they waited breathlessly for an order from their leader.
“All right, in you go!” presently came from Pole's deep voice, in a great breath of relief. “Open the door, quick!”
The shutter creaked and swung back into the black void of the store, and the throng pressed inward. The door was closed. The darkness was profound.
“Wait; listen!” Pole cautioned. “Thar might be somebody on the sidewalk at the front.”
“Oh, my God, Marse Carson, is you here?” came from the quaking negro.