"Heah's some close o' Marse Nick's you kin wear, honey," he said.

"Who is Master Nick?" I asked.

Breed slapped his thigh.

"Marse Nick Temple, Marsa's son. He's 'bout you size, but he ain' no mo'
laik you den a Jack rabbit's laik an' owl. Dey ain' none laik Marse Nick
fo' gittin' into trouble-and gittin' out agin."

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He at Temple Bow, on de Ashley Ribber. Dat's de Marsa's barony."

"His what?"

"De place whah he lib at, in de country."

"And why isn't the master there?"

I remember that Breed gave a wink, and led me out of the window onto a
gallery above the one where we had found the master the night before. He
pointed across the dense foliage of the garden to a strip of water
gleaming in the morning sun beyond.

"See dat boat?" said the negro. "Sometime de Marse he tek ar ride in dat
boat at night. Sometime gentlemen comes heah in a pow'ful hurry to git
away, out'n de harbor whah de English is at."

By that time I was dressed, and marvellously uncomfortable in Master