“Simon is here, if you would see him; so come in.”
The black entered the cabin, and found himself in the presence of the person he was seeking, an honest-looking mechanic, whose eye and bearing betokened the fearless man.
“Whatever brings you here must be of importance, Sampson; so tell us at once,” said the mechanic, or Simon Hunt, as was his name.
“Thar’ ar’ no one here who oughtn’t to har a secret, is thar’.”
“Trust me for not harboring any such about my house.”
“Listen, then. This mornin’ that Timothy Turner came to see the general, an’ tell him ’bout a meetin’ o’ whigs that was to be held to-night, and so the general ’l send down a lot o’ his sodgers and chop ’em all up. If you kin send ’em word you’ll be doin’ a good thing for de blessed cause.”
“All right, where is this meeting to be held, and who is to hold it? I must know who to send word to. Give me that, and they shall know the game before night.”
“He on’y knows two—they be Masser John Vale and Nat Ernshaw.”
“What? Nat Ernshaw turning whig trooper? That’s unexpected, but I always thought there was good in the fellow, if he only had a chance and would show it. I’ll send my boy straight off. If he puts the spurs to the old roan’s sides he ought to get to Ernshaw’s before dinner. Then they have the whole afternoon in which to warn the boys not to come to the meeting. The two that were mentioned, though, will have to keep dark, or they will find the country too hot for them.”
“Well, Nat kin take care on himself. Take smarter men dan de Britishers to ketch him asleep; and he take keer o’ Massa John, too; but I think I better go. It might ’pear s’picious if any one see me here. Good mornin!”