CHAPTER XII.
N Carson Dwight's farm, as the place was not particularly well kept, the negro hands lived in dismantled log-cabins scattered here and there about the fields, or in the edge of the woods surrounding the place. In one of these, at the overseer's suggestion, Pete had installed himself, his household effects consisting only of a straw mattress thrown on the puncheon floor and a few cooking utensils for use over the big fireplace of the mud-and-log chimney.
Here he was sleeping on the night of the tragedy which had stirred the country-side into a white heat of race hatred. He had spent the first half of the night at a negro dance, two miles away, at a farm, and was much elated by finding that he had attracted marked attention and feminine favor, which was due to the fact that he was looked upon by the country blacks as something out of the usual run—a town darky with a glib tongue and many other accomplishments, and a negro, too, as Pete assured them, who stood high in the favor of his master, whose name carried weight wherever it was mentioned.
Shortly after dawn Pete was still sleeping soundly, as was his habit after a night of pleasure, when his door was rudely shaken.
“Pete Warren! Pete Warren!” a voice called out sharply. “Wake up in dar; wake up, I tell you!”
There was no response—no sound came from within the cabin except the deep respiration of the sleeper. The door was shaken again, and then, as it was not locked, and slightly ajar, the little old negro man on the outside pushed the shutter open and entered, stalking across the floor to where Pete lay.
“Wake up here, you fool!” he said, as he bent and shook Pete roughly. “Wake up, ef you know what good fer you.”