of leaving them their freedom when he should pass away. He had left no
will and since his death the two had fallen into the hands of his nephew,
a despotic, violent young drunkard of the name of Biggs, who had ruled
his servants with club and bull whip and who in a temper had killed a
young negro a few months before. The fugitives said that they would
rather die than go back to him.

Samson was so moved by their story that he hitched up his horses and put
some hay in the wagon box and made off with the fugitives up the road to
the north in the night. When daylight came he covered them with the hay.
About eight o'clock he came to a frame house and barn, the latter being
of unusual size for that time and country. Above the door of the barn
was a board which bore the stenciled legend: "John Peasley, Orwell Farm."

As Samson drew near the house he observed a man working on the roof of
a woodshed. Something familiar in his look held the eye of the New Salem
man. In half a moment he recognized the face of Henry Brimstead. It was
now a cheerful face. Brimstead came down the ladder and they shook hands.

"Good land o' Goshen! How did you get here?" Samson asked. Brimstead
answered:

"Through the help of a feller that looks like you an' the grit of a pair
o' hosses. Come down this road early in September on my way to the land
o' plenty. Found Peasley here. Couldn't help it. Saw his name on the
barn. Used to go to school with him in Orwell. He offered to sell me some
land with a house on it an' trust me for his pay. I liked the looks o'
the country and so I didn't go no further. I was goin' to write you a
letter, but I hain't got around to it yet. Ain't forgot what you done for
us, I can tell ye that."