Jim Pink hailed Peter with a wave of his hand and a grotesque displacement of his mouth to one side of his face, which he had found effective in his minstrel buffoonery.

“Whut you raisin’ so much dus’ about?” he called out of the corner of his mouth, while looking at Peter out of one half-closed eye.

Peter shook his head and smiled.

“Thought it mout be Mister Hooker deliverin’ dat lan’ you bought.”  Jim Pink flung his long, flexible face into an imitation of convulsed laughter, then next moment dropped it into an intense gravity and declared, “‘Dus’ thou art, to dus’ returnest.’” The quotation seemed fruitless and silly enough, but Jim Pink tucked his head to one side as if listening intently to himself, then repeated sepulchrally, “‘Dus’ thou art, to dus’ returnest.’  By the way, Peter,” he broke off cheerily, “you ain’t happen to see Tump Pack, is you?”

“No,” said Peter, unamused.

“Is he borrowed a gun fum you?” inquired the minstrel, solemnly.

“No-o.”  Peter looked questioningly at the clown through half-closed eyes.

“Huh, now dat’s funny.”  Jim Pink frowned, and pulled down his loose mouth and seemed to study.  He drew out a pearl-handled knife, closed his hand over it, blew on his fist, then opened the other hand, and exhibited the knife lying in its palm, with the blade open.  He seemed surprised at the change and began cleaning his finger-nails.  Jim Pink was the magician at his shows.

Peter waited patiently for Jim Pink to impart his information, “Well, what’s the idea?” he asked at last.

“Don’ know.  ’Pears lak dat knife won’t stay in any one han’.”  He looked at it, curiously.

“I mean about Tump,” said Peter, impatiently.

“O-o-oh, yeah; you mean ‘bout Tump.  Well, I thought Tump mus’ uv borrowed a gun fum you.  He lef’ Hobbett’s corner wid a great big forty-fo’, inquirin’ wha you is.”  Just then he glanced up, looked penetratingly through the dust-cloud, and added, “Why, I b’lieve da’ ’s Tump now.”

With a certain tightening of the nerves, Peter followed his glance, but made out nothing through the fogging dust.  When he looked around at Jim Pink again, the buffoon’s face was a caricature of immense mirth.  He shook it sober, abruptly, minstrel fashion.

“Maybe I’s mistooken,” he said solemnly.  “Tump did start over heah wid a gun, but Mister Dawson Bobbs done tuk him up fuh ca’yin’ concealed squidjulums; so Tump’s done los’ dat freedom uv motion in de pu’suit uv happiness gua’anteed us niggers an’ white folks by the Constitution uv de Newnighted States uv America.”  Here Jim Pink broke into genuine laughter, which was quite a different thing from his stage grimaces.  Peter stared at the fool astonished.

“Has he gone to jail?”

“Not prezactly.”

“Well—­confound it!—­exactly what did happen, Jim Pink?”

“He gone to Mr. Cicero Throgmartins’.”