“Well then, let me put this differently.  Have you ever assisted any slaves to run away from Missouri?”

“Well, Massa Knox, I reckon thet maybe I knew’d ‘bout som’ gittin’ a-way—­’pears like I did, sah.”

“And these escaped by way of the Illinois?”

His dumb, almost pathetic eyes met mine pleadingly, but some expression of my face served to yield him courage.

“I—­I reckon I—­I don’t know much ’bout all dis, Massa Knox,” he stammered doubtfully, his hands locking and unlocking nervously.  “I—­I sure don’; an’ fer de mattah o’ dat, ther ain’t nobody whut does, sah.  All I does know, fer sure, is dat if a nigger onct gets as fer as a certain white man up de ribber, ’bout whar de mouth ob de Illinois is, he’s got a mighty good chance fer ter reach Canada.  De next place whar he’s most likely ter stop is Beardstown, long wid som’ sorter preacher whut lives thar.  An’ thet’s as fer as dey ever done tol’ me, sah.”

“About this first white man—­the one near the mouth of the Illinois—­do you know his name?”

Pete rose to his feet, and crossed the room to where I stood, bending down until his lips were close to my ear.  His answer was spoken in a thick whisper.

“Massa Knox, I never did ’spect to say dis ter no white man, but it seems I just nat’larly got fer ter tell yer.  I done heerd thet man say onct just whut yer did, thet a nigger wus just as much his frien’ as though he wus white—­thet it wan’t de skin nohow what counted, but de heart.  No, sah, I ain’t feered fer ter tell yer, Massa Knox.  He’s got a cabin hid way back in de bluffs, whar nobody don’t go, ’cept dem who know whar it is.  I reckon he don’t do nuthin’ but hunt an’ fish nohow—­leastways he don’t raise no corn, nor truck fer ter sell.  He’s a tall, lanky man, sah, sorter thin, with a long beard, an’ his name wus Amos Shrunk.  I reckon maybe he’s a Black Abolitionist, sah.”

“Quite likely, I should say.  And you could take a boat from here to his place?”

“Sure, the darkest night yer ever see.  Inter the mouth ob a crick, ’bout a hundred rods up de Illinois.  Den thar’s a path, a sorter path, whut goes ter de cabin; but most genir’ly he’s down thar waitin’ et night.  Yer see dey never sure knows when som’ nigger is goin’ fer ter git away—­only mostly it’s at night.”

This knowledge greatly simplified matters.  If there was already in operation an organized scheme by means of which fugitives from this side of the great river were taken through to Canada, protected and assisted along the way by the friends of freedom, then all we would be required to do in this case would be to safely convey the unfortunate Rene and her mother in Pete’s boat up the river, and there turn them over to the care of this Amos Shrunk.  Undoubtedly he could be trusted to see to it that they were promptly forwarded to others, fanatics like himself, who would swiftly pass them along at night across the Illinois