“Well,” he said, “here I am,” and in unusual silence set about his work by dim candlelight.  The patient was as silent.  When Josiah had finished, he said no word of his fee, knowing it to be a hopeless debt.

“Guess you do look the better for a shave,” he remarked, as he was about to leave.  “I’ll send up Billy.”  The uneasy guardian had seized on the chance to get a little relief.

“No, don’t go,” said Lamb.  “I’m in a hell of thirst.  I want you to get me some whisky.  I’ll pay you when I get work.”

Josiah was prudent and had no will to oblige the drunkard nor any belief in future repayment.  “Couldn’t do that—­doctor wouldn’t like it.”

“What, you won’t do it?”

“No, I can’t do it.”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell what I know about you.”

“What do you know?” The long lost terror returned—­but what could he know?

“Oh, you ran away—­I know all about it.  You help me now and I’ll keep quiet—­you’d better.”

A fierce desire rose in the mind of Josiah to kill the rascal, and then, by long habit prudent, he said, “I’ll have to think about it.”  But what could this man know?

“Best to think damn quick, or you’ll have your old master down on you.  I give you till to-morrow morning early.  Do you hear?  It’s just a nip of whisky I want.”

“Yes, I hear—­got to think about it.”  He went out into the night, a soul in fear.  No one knew his former master’s name.  Then his very good intelligence resumed control.  No one really knew—­only John—­and he very little.  He put it aside, confident in the young fellow’s discretion.  Of course, the town suspected that he was a fugitive slave, but nobody cared or seemed to care.  And yet, at times in his altogether prosperous happy years of freedom, when he read of the fugitive-slave act, and he read much, he had disturbing hours.  He stood still a moment and crossed the road.  The Episcopal church, which he punctually attended, was on Penhallow’s land, and near by was the rectory where Mark lived with an old woman cook and some help from Mrs. Lamb.  The night was warm, the windows were open, and the clergyman was seen writing.  Josiah at the window spoke.

“Excuse me, sir, could I talk to you?  I am in a heap of trouble.”

“In trouble, Josiah?  Come in, the front door is open.”

As he entered the rector’s study, Rivers said, “Sit down.”

Something in the look of the man made him think of hunted animals.  “No one else is in the house.  What is it?” The black poured out his story.

“So then,” said Rivers, “he lied to you about the doctor and threatened you with a lie.  Why, Josiah, if he had known who was your master, he would have told you, and whether or not you ran away from slavery is none of his business.  Mr. Penhallow believes you did, others suspect it, but no one cares.  You are liked and you have the respect of the town.  There would be trouble if any man tried to claim you.”