“Ben kinder come ter hisse’f an’ seed it wuz Primus, who b’long ter his marster an’ knowed ‘im as well as anybody.  But befo’ he could git de words out’n his mouf Primus went on talkin.’

“‘Youer de mos’ mis’able lookin’ merlatter I eber seed.  Dem rags look lak dey be’n run th’oo a sawmill.  My marster doan ’low no strange niggers roun’ dis yer plantation, an’ yo’ better take yo’ yaller hide ‘way f’um yer as fas’ as yo’ kin.’

“Jes den somebody hollered on de yuther side er de crick, an’ Primus stahted off on a run, so Ben didn’ hab no chance ter say no mo’ ter ’im.

“Ben almos’ ‘lowed he wuz gwine out’n’ his min’, he wuz so ’stonished an’ mazed at none er dese yer folks reco’nizin’ ’im.  He went back in de woods ag’in an’ stayed dere all day, wond’rin’ w’at he wuz gwineter do.  Oncet er twicet he seed folks comin’ ‘long de road, an’ stahted out ter speak ter ’em, but changed his min’ an’ slip’ back ag’in.

“Co’se ef Mars Marrabo had been huntin’ Ben he would ‘a’ foun’ ’im.  But he had long sence los’ all hope er seein’ im ag’in, an’ so nobody didn’ ‘sturb Ben in de woods.  He stayed hid a day er two mo’ an’ den he got so lonesome an’ homesick fer Dasdy an’ little Pete an’ de yuther dahkies,—­somebody ter talk ter—­dat he jes’ made up his min’ ter go right up ter de house an’ gib hisse’f up an’ take his med’cine.  Mars Marrabo couldn’ do nuffin’ mo’ d’n kill ‘im an’ he mought’s well be dead as hidin’ in de woods wid nobody ter talk ter er look at ner nuffin’.  He had jes’ come out ‘n de woods an’ stahted up dis ve’y road, w’en who sh’d come ’long in a hoss ‘n buggy but ole Mars Marrabo, drivin’ ober ter dat yuther brickyahd youer gwinter see now.  Ben run out ’n de woods, and fell down on his knees in de road right in front er Mars Marrabo.  Mars Marrabo had to pull on de lines an’ hoi’ de hoss up ter keep ’im f’um runnin’ ober Ben.

“‘Git out’n de road, you fool nigger,’ says Mars Marrabo, ’does yer wanter git run ober?  Whose nigger is you, anyhow?’

“I’s yo’ nigger, Mars Marrabo; doan yer know Ben, w’at runned erway?’

“‘Yas, I knows my Ben w’at runned erway.  Does you know whar he is?’

“‘Why, I’s yo’ Ben, Mars Marrabo.  Doan yer know me, marster?’

“’No, I doan know yer, yer yaller rascal!  W’at de debbil yer mean by tellin’ me sich a lie?  Ben wuz black ez a coal an’ straight ez an’ arrer.  Youer yaller ez dat clay-bank, an’ crooked ez a bair’l-hoop.  I reckon youer some ’stracted nigger, tun’t out by some marster w’at doan wanter take keer er yer.  You git off’n my plantation, an’ doan show yo’ clay-cullud hide aroun’ yer no more, er I’ll hab yer sent ter jail an’ whip.’

“Mars Marrabo drove erway an’ lef’ po’ Ben mo’ dead ‘n alive.  He crep’ back in de bushes an’ laid down an’ wep’ lak a baby.  He didn’ hab no wife, no chile, no frien’s, no marster—­he’d be’n willin’ ernuff to git ’long widout a marster, w’en he had one, but it ’peared lak a sin fer his own marster ter ’ny ‘im an’ cas’ ’im off dat-a-way.  It ’peared ter ‘im he mought jes’ ez well be dead ez livin’, fer he wuz all alone in de worl’, wid nowhar ter go, an’ nobody didn’ hab nuffin’ ter say ter ’im but ter ’buse ‘im an’ drive ’im erway.