The steps came slowly nearer. They had passed, I thought, when a pause set
my heart to jumping madly. Then came a low, cautious whisper:--

"You boy, what you doin' dah?"

It was not the relief after all. It was the good old villainous-looking
black cook, with a cup of coffee for Mr. Falk.

"Put yo' head down dah," he whispered, "put yo' head down, boy."

With a quick motion of his hand he jerked some canvas from the butt so that
it concealed me, and went on, followed by the quick steps of the real
relief.

Now I heard voices, but the only words I could distinguish were in the
cook's deep drawl.

"Yass, sah, yass, sah. Ah brought yo' coffee, sah, Yass, sah, Ah'll wait
fo' yo' cup, sah."

Next came Kipping's step--a mild step, if there is such a thing; even in
his bullying the man was mild. Then came the slow, heavy tread of the
returning African.

Flicking the canvas off me, he muttered, "All's cleah fo' you to git away,
boy. How you done come to git in dis yeh scrape sho' am excruciatin'. You
just go 'long with you while dey's a chanst."

So, carrying with me the very unimportant discovery that I had made, I ran
cautiously forward, away from the place where I had no business to be.