clustered near me, moved off to a respectful distance. One or two left
the bar-room, and murmured, "better let the small-pox nigger go."

I was then asked what was the name of the slave-trader. Without
premeditation, I said, "John Henderson."

"John Henderson!" said one of my captors, "I knew him; I took up a yaller
boy for him about two years ago, and got fifty dollars. He passed out with
a gang about that time, and the boy ran away from him at Frederickstown.
What kind of a man was he?"

At a venture, I gave a description of him. "Yes," said he, "that is the
man." By this time, all the gossippers had cleared the coast; our friend,
"Jake Shouster," had also gone back to his bench to finish his custom
work, after having "lost nearly the whole day, trotting about with a
nigger tied," as I heard his wife say as she called him home to his
dinner. I was now left alone with the man who first called to me in the
morning. In a sober manner, he made this proposal to me: "John, I have a
brother living in Risterstown, four miles off, who keeps a tavern; I think
you had better go and live with him, till we see what will turn up. He
wants an ostler." I at once assented to this. "Well," said he, "take
something to eat, and I will go with you."

Although I had so completely frustrated their designs for the moment, I
knew that it would by no means answer for me to go into that town, where
there were prisons, handbills, newspapers, and travellers. My intention
was, to start with him, but not to enter the town alive.

I sat down to eat; it was Wednesday, four o'clock, and this was the first
regular meal I had since Sunday morning. This over, we set out, and to my