the inside pocket of my coat a small pistol. In passing through here
about eleven o'clock, walking hastily homeward from Crispin's, I
stumbled by some chance, and as I fell the pistol was discharged and
has killed me. Here, take the pistol quick, and run for my father.
Be quick, man, quick, that I may, if possible, say farewell. Take
the pistol with you. I am not strong enough to reach it. Be quick."

Horrified, the old carrier groped on the ground for it, and
accidentally dipped his hand into the pool of blood near the wounded
man.

"The devil? I hate blood? Dis is bad, bad, bad! Mass' Mark! Mass'
Mark!" No reply.

"Mass' Mark! I b'lieve he's dead. I feared so. Mass' Mark!" Still no
reply.

"O Lordy! I'll get away from here. De poor child's dead, an' if I'm
seen 'bout here dey may 'cuse me of murder. I can't go an' tell
nuffin. Ole Peter's 'fraid. I must git away;" and gathering up his
papers and the blanket again, he left the scene of the tragedy as
rapidly as his disabled limbs would allow, feeling as if some
fearful ghost were in close pursuit. Unconsciously, he carried the
pistol with him, and was many squares away before he sufficiently
collected his bewildered and terrified faculties, to observe the
deadly weapon in his grasp. "What should he do with it?" at once
flashed through his brain, and as the brightening daylight prevented
his returning it to its place beside the victim, he resolved to keep
it. He dared not cast it from him.