The Littlest Rebel | Page 4

on this guilty piece of baggage Uncle Billy's eye immediately fastened with an angry frown.
"Whar you gwine?" demanded Uncle Billy, with an accusing finger trembling at the bundle.
The younger man made no reply.
"Hear _me_?" the elder demanded again in rising tones of severity. "Ain't you got no tongue in yo' haid? Whar you gwine?"
Shifting from one foot to the other the younger man finally broke away from Uncle Billy's eye and tried to pass him by.
"Den _I'll_ tell you whar you gwine," shouted Uncle Billy, furious at last. "You's runnin' 'way to de Yankees, dat's whar you gwine."
At this too truthful thrust Jeems Henry saw that further deceit would be futile and he faced Uncle Billy with sullen resentment.
"An' s'posin' I _is_--wat den?"
"Den you's a thief," retorted Uncle Billy with dismayingly quick wit. "Dat's what you is--a thief."
"I _ain'_ no thief," Jeems Henry refuted stubbornly, "I ain' stole nothin'."
"You is too," and Uncle Billy's forefinger began to shake in the other's face. "You's stealin' a _nigger_!"
"What dat?" and Jeems Henry's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What you talkin' 'bout?"
"Talkin' 'bout _you_," replied Uncle Billy, sharper than ever. "Dey say a nigger's wuth a thousan' dollars. 'Cose you ain't wuth dat much," he said with utter disgust. "I put you down at a dollar and a quarter. But dat ain't de p'int," and he steadily advanced on the other till their faces were only a few inches apart. "It's dis. _You_, Jeems Henry, belongs to Mars' Herbert Cary an' Miss Hallie; an' when you runs 'way you's stealin'. _You's stealin yo'sef!_"
"H'm!" sniffed Jeems Henry, now that the nature and extent of his crime were fully understood. "Ef I ain' wuth but a dollar an' a quarter, I suttenly ain' stealin' _much_!"
At this smart reply Uncle Billy's disgust overcame him completely and he tossed the rooster on the ground and clutched Jeems Henry by the arm.
"You mighty right, you ain't!" he shouted. "An' ef I was fo' years younger I'd take it outer yo' hide with a carriage whip. Hol' on dar," as Jeems Henry eluded his grasp and began to move away. "Which way you gwine? You hear me? Now den!"
"I gwine up de river," replied Jeems Henry, badgered at last into revealing his plan. Then, after a cautious look around,--"to Chickahominy Swamp," he added in lower tones.
Uncle Billy cocked his ears. Here was news indeed.
"Chickahominy, huh! So de Yankees is up dar, is dey? An' what you think you gwine to do when you git to 'em?"
"Wuck 'roun de camp," replied Jeems Henry with some vagueness.
"Doin' what?" was the relentless query.
"Blackin' de gent'men's boots--an'--an' gittin' paid fer it," Jeems Henry stammered in reply. "It's better'n being a slave, Unc' Billy," he added as he saw the sneer of contempt on the faithful old man's face. "An' ef you wan' sech a crazy ol' fool, you'd come along wid me, too."
At this combination of temptation and insult Uncle Billy's eyes narrowed with contempt and loathing. "Me?" he said, and a rigid arm pointed back at the house which had been for years his source of shelter and comfort. "Me leave Miss Hallie _now_? Right when she ain't got _nothin_'? Look heah, nigger; dog-gone yo' skin, I got a great min' for to mash yo' mouf. Yas, I is a slave. I b'longs to Mars Cary--an' I b'longed to his pa befo' him. Dey feed me and gimme de bes' dey got. Dey take care of me when I'm sick--an' dey take care of me when I'm well--an' I gwine to stay right here. But you? You jes' go on wid de Yankees, an' black der boots. Dey'll free you," and Uncle Billy's voice rose in prophetic tones--"an you'll keep on blackin' boots! Go 'long now, you low-down, dollar-an'-a-quarter nigger!" as Jeems Henry backed away. "Go long wid yo' Yankee marsters--and git yo' freedom an' a blackin' brush."
So engrossed were both the actors in this drama that they failed to hear the sound of footsteps on the veranda, and it was so that the mistress of the manor found the would-be runaway and the old slave, glaring into each other's eyes and insulting one another volubly.
Mrs. Cary, with her workbasket on her arm, paused at the top of the steps and regarded the angry pair with well-bred surprise.
"Why, Uncle Billy," she queried, "what is going on here? What is the matter?"
"It's Jeems Henry; dat's what's de matter," said Uncle Billy, in defense of his agitation. "He's runnin' 'way to de Yankees."
Mrs. Cary stopped short for a moment and then came slowly down the steps.
"Oh, James," she said, unbelievingly. "Is this really true?"
Jeems Henry hung his head and dug at the gravel with his toe.
"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Cary, and the word held a world of painful thought--of self-accusation, of hopeless regret, of