“He at Temple Bow, on de Ashley Ribber. Dat's de Marsa's barony.”
“His what?”
“De place whah he lib at, in de country.”
“And why isn't the master there?”
I remember that Breed gave a wink, and led me out of the window onto a gallery above the one where we had found the master the night before. He pointed across the dense foliage of the garden to a strip of water gleaming in the morning sun beyond.
“See dat boat?” said the negro. “Sometime de Marse he tek ar ride in dat boat at night. Sometime gentlemen comes heah in a pow'ful hurry to git away, out'n de harbor whah de English is at.”
By that time I was dressed, and marvellously uncomfortable in Master Nick's clothes. But as I was going out of the door, Breed hailed me.
“Marse Dave,”—it was the first time I had been called that,—“Marse Dave, you ain't gwineter tell?”
“Tell what?” I asked.
“Bout'n de boat, and Marsa agwine away nights.”