Custis
reproved him sharply. Dave jumped down from the seat and appeared to be
examining some part of the breeching, though Samson assured him that it
was all right. As Dave finished his examination, he raised both hands
above his head twice, and stretched to the height of his figure as he
stood on the brow of a little hill.
"Missy Custis," he apologized, as he turned back, "I is tired mighty bad
dis a'ternoon. Dat stable keeps me up half de night."
"Liquor tires you more, David," Mrs. Custis spoke, sharply; "and that
tavern is no place to hire you to with your appetite for drink, as I
shall tell your master."
At this moment Jimmy Phoebus observed the lean little mulatto boy who
had left the hotel come up out of the swampy place in the road and
exchange a look of intelligence with Dave as he rode past on the pony.
"Boy," cried Samson, "is dat de road to Laurel?"
The boy made no answer, but, looking back once, timidly, ground his
heels into the pony's flank and darted into the brush towards Salisbury.
"Samson," spoke Dave, "you see dat ole woman in de cart yonder?"--he
pointed to a figure ascending the rise in the ground beyond the
brook--"I know her, an' she's gwyn right to Laurel. She lives dar. It's
ten miles from dis yer turn-off, an' she knows all dese yer
woods-roads."
"Good-bye, den, an' may you find Aunt Hominy an' de little chillen,
Jimmy, an' bring dem all home to Prencess Anne from dat ar Joe Johnson!"
cried Samson, and trotted his mule through the swamp and away.
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