“Nebber seen him afore, either,” said Dick to himself.  “Den I guess I aint afeard ob him.”

The stranger was a somewhat short and thick-set but bright and active-looking boy, with a pair of very keen, greenish-gray eyes.  But, after all, the first word he spoke to poor Dick was: 

“Hullo, clothes! where are you going with all that boy?”

“I knowed it!  I knowed it!” groaned Dick.  But he answered, as sharply as he knew how:  “I’s goin’ a-fishin’.  Any ob youah business?”

“Where’d you learn to fish?” the stranger asked.  “Down South?  Didn’t know they had any there.”

“Nebbah was down Souf,” was the surly reply.

“Father run away, did he?”

“He nebber was down dar, nudder.”

“Nor his father?”

“‘T aint no business o’ your’n,” said Dick; “but we’s allers lived right heah on dis bay.”

“Guess not,” replied the white boy, knowingly.

But Dick was right, for his people had been slaves among the very earliest Dutch settlers, and had never “lived South” at all.  He was now busily getting one of the boats ready to push off; but his white tormentor went at him again with—­

“Well, then, if you’ve lived here so long, you must know everybody.”

“Reckon I do.”

“Are there any nice fellows around here?  Any like me?”

“De nicest young genelman ’round dis bay,” replied Dick, “is Mr. Dab Kinzer.  But he aint like you.  Not nuff to hurt ’im.”

“Dab Kinzer!” exclaimed the stranger.  “Where did he get his name?”

“In de bay, I spect,” said Dick, as he shoved his boat off.  “Caught ’im wid a hook.”

“Anyhow,” said the strange boy to himself, “that’s probably the sort of fellow my father would wish me to associate with.  Only it’s likely he’s very ignorant.”

And he walked away toward the village with the air of a man who had forgotten more than the rest of his race were ever likely to find out.

At all events, Dick Lee had managed to say a good word for his benefactor, little as he could guess what might be the consequences.

Meantime, Dab Kinzer, when he went out from breakfast, had strolled away to the north fence, for a good look at the house which was thenceforth to be the home of his favorite sister.  He had seen it before, every day since he could remember; but it seemed to have a fresh and almost mournful interest for him just now.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he leaned against the fence.  “Putting up ladders?  Oh yes, I see!  That’s old Tommy McGrew, the house-painter.  Well, Ham’s house needs a new coat as badly as I did.  Sure it’ll fit, too.  Only it aint used to it any more’n I am.”

“Dabney!”

It was his mother’s voice, and Dab felt like “minding” very promptly that morning.

“Dabney, my boy, come here to the gate.”

“Ham’s having his house painted,” he remarked, as he joined his mother.