the boy made fast his garments, one after another. His money and valuables
went up in the pockets, for the sharp eyes of the mulatto could not have
been eluded by any amateur slight-of-hand.

“Now, yo’ cap an’ yo’ shoes,” directed the grinning monster above.

These, too, Benson passed up at the end of the cord. The mulatto
disappeared, leaving the two dogs still on guard. At last, back came the
light and the yellowish man with it.

“Yo’ sho’ is good picking, Marse Benson,” grinned the guide of the night
before. “Yo’ has good pin feathers. Ah hope Ah’ll suttinly meet yo’
again.”

“I hope we do meet at another time!” Jack Benson flared back, wrathily.
The cool insolence of the fellow cut him to the marrow, yet where was the
use of disobeying a rascal flanked by two such willing and capable dogs?

“Now, yo’ jes’ put dese t’ings on, Marse Benson, ef yo’ please, sah,”
mocked the mulatto, tossing down some woefully tattered, nondescript
garments, and, after them, a battered, rimless Derby hat and a pair of
brogans out at the toes.

“I’ll be hanged if I’ll put on such duds!” quivered Jack.

“Jes’ as yo’ please, ob co’se, Marse Benson,” came the answer, from above.
“But, ef yo’ don’ put dem t’ings on, yo’ll sho’ly hab ter gwine back ter
’Napolis in yo’ undahclo’s. An’ yo’s gwine back right away, too, so, ef
yo’ wants ter gwine back weahin’ ernuff clo’es—”