Balaam and His Master, and Other Sketches and Stories. Joel Chandler Harris

and felt of his muscles in quite a professional way.

      “I reckon he ain’t noways vicious,” said the trader, looking at Balaam’s smiling face.

      “I have never seen him angry or sullen,” said Mr. Cozart. Other questions were asked, and finally the trader jotted down this memorandum in his note-book:—

      “Buck nigger, Balaam; age 32; 6 feet 1 inch; sound as a dollar; see Colonel Strother.”

      Then the trader made an appointment with Berrien for the next day, and said he thought the negro could be disposed off at private sale. Such was the fact, for when Berrien went back the next day the trader met him with an offer of fifteen hundred dollars in cash for Balaam.

      “Make it eighteen,” said Mr. Cozart.

      “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said the trader, closing his eyes and pursing his mouth in a business-like way. “I’ll give you sixteen fifty—no more, no less. Come, now, that’s fair. Split the difference.”

      Thereupon Mr. Cozart said it was a bargain, and the trader paid him the money down after the necessary papers were drawn up. Balaam seemed to be perfectly satisfied. All he wanted, he said, was to have a master who would treat him well. He went with Berrien to the hotel to fetch his little belongings, and if the trader had searched him when he returned he would have found strapped around his body a belt containing fifty dollars in specie.

      Having thus, in a manner, replenished his empty purse, Mr. Berrien Cozart made haste to change his field of operations. To his competitors in his own special department of industry he let drop the hint that he was going to Columbus, and thence to Mobile and New Orleans, where he would hang on the outskirts of the racing season, picking up such crumbs and contributions as might naturally fall in the way of a professional gentleman who kept his eyes open and his fingers nimble enough to deal himself a winning hand.

      As a matter of fact Mr. Cozart went to Nashville, and he had not been gone many days before Balaam disappeared. He had been missing two days before Colonel Strother, his new master, took any decided action, but on the morning of the fourth day the following advertisement appeared among others of a like character in the columns of the Atlanta “Intelligencer”:—

      $100 reward will be paid for the apprehension of my negro boy Balaam. Thirty-odd years old, but appeared younger; tall, pleasant-looking, quick-spoken, and polite. Was formerly the property of the Hon. William Cozart. He is supposed to be making his way to his old home. Was well dressed when last seen. Milledgeville “Recorder” and “Federal Union” please copy.

      Bozeman Strother,

       Atlanta, Georgia.

      (d. & w. 1 mo.)

      This advertisement duly appeared in the Milledgeville papers, which were published not far from Billville, but no response was ever made; the reward was never claimed. Considering the strength and completeness of the patrol system of that day, Balaam’s adventure was a risky one; but, fortunately for him, a wiser head than his had planned his flight and instructed him thoroughly in the part he was to play. The shrewdness of Berrien Cozart had provided against all difficulties. Balaam left Atlanta at night, but he did not go as a fugitive. He was armed with a “pass” which formally set forth to all to whom it might concern that the boy David had express permission to join his master in Nashville, and this “pass” bore the signature of Elmore Avery, a gentleman who existed only in the imagination of Mr. Berrien Cozart. Attached thereto, also, was the signature seal of the judge of ordinary. With this little document Balaam would have found no difficulty whatever in traveling. The people he met would have reasoned that the negro whose master trusted him to make so long a journey alone must be an uncommonly faithful one, but Balaam met with an adventure that helped him along much more comfortably than the pass could have helped him. It is best, perhaps, to tell the story in his own language, as he told it long afterwards.

      “I won’t say I weren’t skeered,” said Balaam, “kaze I was; yit I weren’t skeered ’nough fer ter go slippin’ ’longside er de fences an’ ’mongst de pine thickets. I des kep’ right in de big road. Atter I got out er town a little piece, I tuck off my shoes an’ tied de strings tergedder an’ slung ’em ’cross my shoulder, on top my satchel, an’ den I sorter mended my gait. I struck up a kind er dog-trot, an’ by de time day come a many a mile lay ’twix’ me an’ Atlanta. Little atter sun-up I hear some horses trottin’ on de road de way I come, an’ bimeby a man driv up in a double buggy. He say, ‘Hello, boy! Whar you gwine?’ I pulled off my hat, an’ say, ‘I gwine whar my marster is, suh.’ Den de white man ’low, ‘W’at he name?’ Well, suh, when de man ax me dat, hit come over me like a big streak er de chill an’ fever dat I done clean fergit de name what Marse Berry choosen ter be call by. So I des runned my han’ und’ de lindin’ er my hat an’ pulled out de pass, an’ say, ‘Boss, dis piece er paper kin talk lots better dan I kin.’

      “De man look at me right hard, an’ den he tuck de pass an’ read it out loud. Well, suh, w’en he come ter de name I des grabbed holt un it wid my min’, an’ I ain’t never turned it loose tell yit. De man was drivin’ long slow, an’ I was walkin’ by de buggy. He helt de pass in his han’s some little time, den he look at me an’ scratch his head. Atter a while he ’low: ‘You got a mighty long journey befo’ you. Kin you drive? Ef you kin, put on yo’ shoes an’ mount up here an’ take dese lines.’

      “Well, suh, I wuz sorter glad, an’ yit I wuz sorter skittish, but I tol’ de white man thankydo, an’ le’pt up in dat buggy like I was de gladdes’ nigger in de worl’. De man he keep on lookin’ at me, an’ bimeby he say, ‘I tuck a notion when I fust see you dat you was de boy w’at Cozart had in Atlanta.’ Mon! you could er knocked me over wid a feather, I was dat weak; but I bu’st out laughin’ an’ ’low, ‘Lord, boss! ef I wa’n’t no better lookin’ dan dat ar Cozart nigger I’d quit bein’ a nigger an’ take up wid de monkey tribe.’ De man say, ‘I had de idee dat de Cozart nigger was a mighty likely boy. What was his name? Balaam?’ I was so skeered it fair make me sick at de stomach, yit I talk right out. I ’low, ‘Dey call ’im Balaam, an’ dey have ter whale ’im.’ De man he laugh, ‘He got a great big scyar on de side er his neck now whar somebody hit ’im a diff, an’ he lay roun’ dem hotels an’ drink dram all night long.’ De man look sideways at my neck. ‘Dat nigger got so bad dat his marster had ter sell ’im, an’ dey tells me, suh, dat de man w’at buy ’im ain’ no mo’ dan paid de money fer ’im dan he have ter take ’im down and strop ’im.’

      “Well, suh, de man look at me an laugh so funny dat it make my ve’y limbs ache. Yes, suh. My heart hit up ’g’inst my ribs des like a flutter-mill; an’ I wuz so skeered it make my tongue run slicker dan sin. He ax me mo’ questions dan I could answer now, but I made answer den des like snappin’ my fingers. W’at make me de mo’ skeered was de way dat ar white man done. He’d look at me an’ laugh, an’ de plumper I gin ’im de answer de mo’ he’d laugh. I say ter myse’f, I did: ‘Balaam, you’r’ a goner, dat w’at you is. De man know you, an’ de fust calaboose he come ter he gwine slap you in dar.’ I had a mighty good notion ter jump out er dat buggy an’ make a break fer de woods, but stidder dat I sot right whar I wuz, kaze I knowed in reason dat ef de man want me right bad an’ I wuz ter break an’ run he’d fetch me down wid a pistol.

      “Well, suh, dat man joke an’ laugh de whole blessed mornin,’ an’ den bimeby we drove in a town not much bigger dan Bivvle” (which was Balaam’s pet name for Billville), “an’ dar de white man say we’d stop fer dinner. He ain’t say de word too soon fer me, mon, kaze I was so hongry an’ tired it make my head swim. We driv up ter tavern, we did, an’ de folks dar dey holler, ‘Howdy, Judge,’ an’ de white man he holler ‘Howdy’ back, an’ den he tol’ me ter take de horses an’ buggy down ter de liberty stable an’ have ’em fed, an’ den come back an’ git my dinner. Dat wuz mighty good news; but whilst I wuz eatin’ my dinner I hear dat white man