In a frontier newspaper of that time it is recorded that the minister and
his dog kept the slaver on the roof all day, vainly trying with prayer
and exhortation to convert his soul. The man stopped swearing before
dinner and on his promise not again to violate the commandment a good
meal was handed up to him. He was liberated at sundown and spent the
night with Brimstead.

"Who is that big sucker who grabbed my friend?" the stranger asked
Brimstead.

"His name is Samson Traylor. Comes from Vermont," was the answer.

"He's the dog-gonedest steam engyne of a man I ever see, 'pon my word,"
said the stranger.

"An' he's about the gentlest, womern hearted critter that ever drawed the
breath o' life," said Brimstead.

"If he don't look out 'Liph Biggs'll kill him--certain."

Samson spoke not more than a dozen words on his way back to New Salem.
Amazed and a little shocked by his own conduct, he sat thinking. After
all he had heard and seen, the threat of the young upstart had provoked
him beyond his power of endurance. Trained to the love of liberty and
justice, the sensitive mind of the New Englander had been hurt by the
story of the fugitives. Upon this hurt the young man had poured the
turpentine of haughty, imperial manners. In all the strange adventure it
seemed to him that he had felt the urge of God--in the letter of Lovejoy,
in the prayers of the negro woman and the minister, in his own wrath. The