As the fugitive stood with one eye gazing through the crack, looking at the table, already set, and snuffing in the delicious odor from a boiling pot, he heard the mother say,—“Take off the chicken, Sally Ann, I guess the dumplings are done. Your father will be home in half an hour; if he should catch that nigger and bring him along, we’ll feed him on the cold meat and potatoes.”
With palpitating heart, Cato listened to the last sentences that fell from the woman’s lips. Who could the “nigger” be, thought he.
Finding only the woman and her daughter in the house, the black man had been debating in his own mind whether or not to go in and demand a part of the contents of the kettle. However, the talk about “catching a nigger,” settled the question at once with him.
Seizing a sheet that hung upon the clothes-line, Cato covered himself with it; leaving open only enough to enable him to see, he rushed in, crying at the top of his voice,—“Come to judgment! Come to judgment.”
Both women sprang from their seats, and, screaming, passed out of the room, upsetting the table as they went. Cato seized the pot of chicken with one hand, and a loaf of bread, that had fallen from the table, with the other; hastily leaving the house and taking to the road, he continued on his journey.
The fugitive, however, had gone but a short distance when he heard the tramp of horses and the voices of men; and, fearing to meet them, he took to the woods till they had passed by.
As he hid behind a large tree by the roadside, Cato heard distinctly:
“And what is your master’s name?”
“Peter Johnson, ser,” was the reply.
“How much do you think he will give to have you brought back?”