“There’s my woman; can see if she knows anything about the nigger!” returns mine host, complacently.  Ellen Juvarna is brought into the presence of the injured man, who interrogates her with great care; but all her disclosures only tend to throw a greater degree of mystery over the whole affair.  At this, Mr. M’Fadden declares that the policy he has always maintained with reference to education is proved true with the preacher’s running away.  Nigger property should never be perverted by learning; though, if you could separate the nigger from the preaching part of the property, it might do some good, for preaching was at times a good article to distribute among certain slaves “what had keen instincts.”  At times, nevertheless, it would make them run away.  Ellen knew Harry as a good slave, a good man, a good Christian, sound in his probity, not at all inclined to be roguish,—­as most niggers are—­a little given to drink, but never bad-tempered.  Her honest opinion is that such a pattern of worthy nature and moral firmness would not disgrace itself by running away, unless induced by white “Buckra.”  She thinks she heard a lumbering and shuffling somewhere about the pen, shortly after midnight.  It might have been wolves, however.  To all this Mr. M’Fadden listens with marked attention.  Now and then he interposes a word, to gratify some new idea swelling his brain.  There is nothing satisfactory yet:  he turns the matter over and over in his mind, looks Ellen steadfastly in the face, and watches the movement of every muscle.  “Ah!” he sighs, “nothing new developing.”  He dismissed the wench, and turns to mine host of the inn.  “Now, squire, (one minute mine host is squire, and the next Mr. Jones) tell ye what ’tis; thar’s roguery goin on somewhere among them ar’ fellers—­them sharpers in the city, I means! (he shakes his head knowingly, and buttons his light sack-coat round him).  That’s a good gal, isn’t she?” he enquires, drawing his chair somewhat closer, his hard face assuming great seriousness.

Mine host gives an affirmative nod, and says, “Nothin shorter!  Can take her word on a turn of life or death.  Tip top gal, that!  Paid a price for her what u’d make ye wink, I reckon.”

“That’s just what I wanted to know,” he interrupts, suddenly grasping the hand of his friend.  “Ye see how I’se a little of a philosopher, a tall politician, and a major in the brigade down our district,—­I didn’t get my law akermin for nothin; and now I jist discovers how somebody-I mean some white somebody-has had a hand in helpin that ar’ nig’ preacher to run off.  Cus’d critters! never know nothing till some white nigger fills their heads with roguery.”

“Say, my worthy M’Fadden,” interrupts the publican, rising suddenly from his seat, as if some new discovery had just broke forth in his mind, “war’nt that boy sold under a warrant?”

“Warranted-warranted-warranted sound in every particular?  That he was.  Just think of this, squire; you’re a knowin one.  It takes you!  I never thought on’t afore, and have had all my nervousness for nothin.  Warranted sound in every particular, means-”