"I didn't," replied the agent. "He had a written pass, signed James
Leckler, and I let him go on it."

"Forged, forged!" yelled the master. "He wrote it himself."

"Humph!" said the agent, "how was I to know that? Our niggers round
here don't know how to write."

Mr. Leckler suddenly bethought him to hold his peace. Josh was
probably now in the arms of some northern abolitionist, and there was
nothing to be done now but advertise; and the disgusted master spread
his notices broadcast before starting for home. As soon as he arrived
at his house, he sought his wife and poured out his griefs to her.

"You see, Mrs. Leckler, this is what comes of my goodness of heart. I
taught that nigger to read and write, so that he could protect
himself,--and look how he uses his knowledge. Oh, the ingrate, the
ingrate! The very weapon which I give him to defend himself against
others he turns upon me. Oh, it's awful,--awful! I've always been too
confiding. Here's the most valuable nigger on my plantation
gone,--gone, I tell you,--and through my own kindness. It isn't his
value, though, I'm thinking so much about. I could stand his loss, if
it wasn't for the principle of the thing, the base ingratitude he has
shown me. Oh, if I ever lay hands on him again!" Mr. Leckler closed
his lips and clenched his fist with an eloquence that laughed at
words.

Just at this time, in one of the underground railway stations, six
miles north of the Ohio, an old Quaker was saying to Josh: "Lie