“Then what mought be the reason you were so onmerciful to her?”

“I never used her hardly.  My friend said she was his slave, and all I wished was to have him obtain his own.  In short, I was paid for my services.”

“No doubt of it, stranger.  But I can’t see how the tenth part of a man could hunt down such a gal as that,—­it’s onnateral.  Besides, you didn’t believe she was a slave.”

“’Pon my honor I did, or I would not have lifted a finger.  But I see you have released the rest of your prisoners,—­I hope you will be as generous towards me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, stranger!”

“I have a mortal aversion to courts of justice.”

“Quite likely,” returned Jerry, pleased with the man’s frankness.

“Besides, I belong to a respectable family, who will not mind paying something handsome to avoid exposure.”

“Can’t be bought, stranger; besides, respectable villains arn’t any better nor others.”

“True; but, you know, their friends, who are educated, are more sensitive in such matters than others.”

“That mought be true, for’s aught I know; but it’s mighty strange you never thought of that sarcumstance before.”

“Never was in limbo before.”

“That’s the go, is’t?  Look-a-here, stranger, is it the darbies, or the crime, which brings the disgrace upon the family?  Accordin’ to my notion,—­and I believe I’ve got something besides nits and lice in my head,—­it’s the deed, and not the punishment, that fotches the disgrace.  But whar does your family live?”

“In New Orleans,” replied Vernon, who knew nothing to the contrary, though we are not sure that, if he had, it would have made any difference in his reply.

“And your name is Vernon?”

“It is.”

“Is that your family name, or only a borried one?”

“It is my real name,” replied Vernon, not a little perplexed by the coolness and method of the woodman’s queries.

“I rather guess not,” suggested Jerry, mildly.

“’Pon my honor—­”

“Think again,—­maybe you mought fotch the real one to your mind.”

Vernon, whose temper was not particularly gentle under contradiction, was nettled, and disposed to be angry.

“Perhaps you know best,” said he, conquering his passion, and assuming one of those peculiarly convincing smiles, which must be an hereditary possession in the family of the “father of lies.”

“Perhaps I do,” replied Jerry.  “If you don’t know any better than that, why, then, I do know best.  It arn’t Vernon.”

“It is not manly, captain, to insult a prisoner,” replied Vernon, with an air of dignity, which came from the same source as the liar’s smile.

“I don’t mean to insult you, stranger; but facts is facts, all over the world,” said Jerry, untouched by the other’s rebuke.

“What mean you?”

“Nothin’, stranger, only I know you.  Your mother arn’t livin’.”