It must have been a weird scene to see the great negro following two boys in the moonlight. Indeed, he came after us like a dog. At length we were in sight of the lights of Fanning Hall. The militia was there. We were challenged by the guard, and caused sufficient amazement when we appeared in the hall before the master, who was a bachelor of fifty.
“‘Sblood, Nick Temple!” he cried, “what are you doing here with that big Congo for a dog? The sight of him frightens me.”
The negro, indeed, was a sight to frighten one. The black mud of the swamps was caked on him, and his flesh was torn by brambles.
“He ran away,” said Nick; “and I am taking him home.”
“You—you are taking him home!” sputtered Mr. Fanning.
“Do you want to see him act?” said Nick. And without waiting for a reply he filled the hall with a dozen monkeys. Mr. Fanning leaped back into a doorway, but the chief prostrated himself on the floor. “Now do you believe I can take him home?” said Nick.
“'Swounds!” said Mr. Fanning, when he had his breath. “You beat the devil, Nicholas Temple. The next time you come to call I pray you leave your travelling show at home.”
“Mamma sent me for the militia,” said Nick.
“She did!” said Mr. Fanning, looking grim. “An insurrection is a bad thing, but there was no danger for two lads in the woods, I suppose.”
“There's no danger anyway,” said Nick. “The niggers are all scared to death.”