My Young Master. Opie Percival Read

was feeling about in the dark for a seat—and then he sat down upon the window ledge. I stood beside him, pressed close against his knee.

      "Don't ever speak of such a thing again," he said, "but I did kill a man—in this room. Are you scared?"

      "No, sir," I answered. "Tell me about it."

      It was some time before he spoke again. I heard Bob's gentle breathing.

      "Have you ever noticed deep marks on the stairs out there?" he asked.

      "Yes, sir."

      "The prints of a horse's shoes?" he said. And then after a silence, asked: "Do you think that I have been drinking to-night?"

      "No, sir."

      "Little liar you, you know I have."

      "But tell me about the man and the marks on the stairs?"

      "Hush! was that your mistress calling me? Wait a moment." I waited for him to continue, scarcely able to keep from trembling against his knee. "Would you think that a man could ride up those stairs?" he asked.

      "No, sir."

      "But a man did. I had said that I was going to horse-whip him, and one day when I lay sick in bed, he came, drunk, and rode up the stairs to my room—this room—to make me eat my words. I heard a terrible racket, and the next thing I knew a horse's head was poked through the door. I thought the devil had come. But the next moment I saw my enemy, standing in his stirrups, looking down on me. He held a pistol in his hand and he snapped it at me. I rolled out of bed, just as he fired, and grabbed a gun and killed him. He fell forward, and his horse took fright and wheeled about for the door. The man—his name was Solomon Putnam—fell to one side as the horse plunged, but his foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged away—dragged to his own gate. The law cleared me, and I know that I was right, but sometimes I see that man, hanging to the stirrup, with the blood streaming out of his mouth. I'm not afraid—I'd do it over again. But I can't sleep when I see him."

      The door creaked. "General!" It was the voice of Old Miss.

      "Madam, what do you want?"

      "What are you doing in there?"

      "Talking to myself. Go on and I will come in a moment."

      "I told you not to drink that brandy—I knew how it would be."

      "Yes, you knew how it would be and I know how it is, so we are about even. Go on, and I will be there in a moment."

      The door creaked again, and I heard her footsteps as she went away. Old Master got up. "Dan," he whispered, "if you ever say a word, I'll whip you. Do you hear?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "I have told Bob. But you musn't talk about it even to him. There, now, go on to bed."

      "And will you go to bed too?" I asked.

      "What's that to you, nighthawk? Go to bed, and if I catch you up again to-night, I'll whip you."

CHAPTER III.

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      Early at morning, Bob and I were summoned by Old Master to go squirrel hunting, to walk round the trees, and turn the squirrel into range of his long rifle and the deadly squint of his sharp old eye. It was spring-time and the squirrels were nipping the hickory buds; it was sunrise and the bold cock-partridge, his feathers ruffled, strutted up and down the top rail of the fence. We had not proceeded far before we came upon a neighbor, 'Squire Boyle, sitting upon a log, picking at the lock of his gun. He hailed Old Master and bade him wait a moment. And both men, seated upon the log, fell into an argument that lasted till the sun was high. We heard the blowing of the breakfast horn, we saw the smoke rise in the fields, where the women were burning the old corn-stalks; we saw the men breaking up the tobacco land, but Old Master and the squire sat there and talked, and sometimes I was afraid that they were going to fight, so fierce were their gestures and so loud did they lift their voices. Bob and I were impatient, and occasionally Bob would say, "Come on, pa." But the old man heeded him not, until finally he turned about with anger in his eyes, and cried out as if in pain: "If you don't quit nagging at me, I will box your jaws. Go on to the house, both of you. 'Zounds, I can't budge but these boys are dogging my foot-steps. Go on to the house and if I catch you following me again, I'll whip you both."

      We fell back a short distance and hid behind a clump of briars and sat there watching, fearful that the two men were going to fight. But their guns were thrown aside and they were walking up and down the length of the log. "I tell you," Old Master cried, "that this step will kill him. The people of this State will not put up with it. It is well enough to talk about justice and human sympathy, but if Henry Clay openly advocates the freeing of the slaves it will kill him. I don't understand how he can be so untrue to the principles of his community, but, 'Squire—" Here he halted in his walk and shook his fist fiercely—"but, 'Squire, I can understand you, sir. You are not a Southern man and you have never owned a slave. Ah, but you are an American. Yes, I grant you that, but the real defender of this country is the Southern man, sir. What's that you say? Would I break up the Union rather than lose the slaves? No, sir, I would not; and there will never be such an issue." Here he looked about and caught sight of us lurking behind the briars.& "Boys!" he cried, taking up his gun and pulling out the hickory ram-rod, "if you don't march off home, this minute, I'll wear you both out." And as we had tasted that hickory and knew its flavor, we scampered away.

      "Do you know what they were talking about?" Bob asked, when we had reached a safe distance.

      "Something about making the black people free," I answered.

      "They are free enough already," he replied, looking sharply at me as we walked along the path.

      "I'm not free," I rejoined. "I belong to you."

      Then he looked at me proudly. "Yes," he said, "and we will have lots of fun. When we get big, we'll get some great long guns and go out and kill Indians, and if anybody tries to shoot you, I'll shoot him. Won't I?"

      "Yes, and I'll shoot anybody that tries to shoot you."

      We had crossed the bars where the cows stood at evening waiting to nourish their calves, and were going toward the stone spring-house, when we met Old Miss.

      "Robert," she said, "run and find your father, quick! Your sister Lou is sick."

      Bob turned to go back, and so did I, but she called me. "Dan, you are not going. Go over to Aunt Mag's cabin and stay there until you are sent for."

      I sat in the cabin door and watched the old woman spin. She gave me a bowl of bread and milk, and she told me that whenever I was mistreated to slip into her house and hide under her bed. "I'm treated all right," I remember to have replied. And I recollect also to have declared that I fought when they did not treat me well. "You'se er monstus brave little man," she said, pausing at the door to pat me on the head. "Fo' gracious, whut's de matter up at de house? Look at de folks all runnin' er roun'? Go up dar an' see."

      I was afraid to go in, believing, and not without cause, that Old Miss would tap me on the head with her big store-room key, and I hung about the door that opened out upon the long veranda. Everything was quiet save the mocking-bird in his cage hung in the hall. But a moment later I heard the well-known feet of Old Master, pacing up and down. I peeped in and saw Dr. Bates walking toward the door, and I ran away and went back to Aunt Mag's cabin. Old Silvy, the cook, took down the long horn, with a snake and a deer's head carved upon it, and blew a blast for dinner, and then the men and the plow horses came through the big gate, with trace-chains jangling. I wondered what could have become of Bob. It was rare, indeed, that we were so long separated. Aunt Mag gave me another bowl of bread and milk, and I sat there on the doorstep, watching the sun-mark slowly moving round the house. The men went back to work. I dozed off to sleep and was aroused with a shake. I looked up and saw a girl hastening up the path toward the house. Old Aunt Mag was standing over me. "Dan'l,"