“One mas’r call me Turtle Tom,” rejoins the negro, scratching his head the while.

“Turtle Tom!” reiterates the stranger.  “Had you no other name coupled with Pompe, when that was the name by which you were recognised?”

The negro will not wait his finishing the sentence.  He says he had good old mas’r’s name; but good old mas’r-"so dey tells"-dead and gone long time ago.  “His name was Marston; and dat war dis child’s name den, God bless ’um!” he answers the stranger.

“Marston, who lived on the banks of the Ashley?” again he enquires, as his face crimsons with excitement.

“Dat war my mas’r; and dem war good old times when I lived dar,” returns the negro, significantly nodding his head.

“Then you are the first man I have met, the first I want to see,” exclaimed the stranger, grasping the negro by the hand, and, much to his surprise, shaking it heartily.

“’Taint Lorenzo,” returns the negro, contemplating the stranger with astonishment.

The stranger is not Lorenzo, but he has heard much of him.  What happy recollections its familiar sound recalls:  how it strengthens his hopes of success in his mission.  The negro tells him he is a labourer on the wharf, and cannot leave to conduct him to an hotel; he will, however, direct the stranger to a comfortable abode in Church Street.  It is quiet and unostentatious, but will serve his purpose.  Placing a piece of money in the negro’s hand, he assures him that he is his friend-has much need of his services-will pay him well for their employment.  He has equally aroused the negro’s curiosity; and, were it nothing more than satisfying that, he would be faithful to his promise to call the same night at seven o’clock.  Precisely at that hour the negro will fulfil his engagement.  The stranger wends his way to Church Street, and up a narrow alley, on the left hand side, finds comfortable apartments, as directed.  Here he makes his toilet, and sallies out to reconnoitre the city.  Meanwhile the little craft is entered at the custom-house as a fruiter, bound from New Providence to New York, and put in for a harbour.  There is something suspicious about a fruiter putting in for a harbour at this season, and many curious glances are cast upon the little captain as he bows to the truth of his entry before the deputy collector.

The stranger has spent the day in viewing the city, and at nightfall, the negro, true to his engagement, presents his sable figure at his lodgings.  A servant having shown him up stairs, he is ushered into his presence, where, seeming bewildered, he looks about inquiringly, as if doubting the object for which he has been summoned.  Abjectly he holds his tattered cap in his hand, and tremblingly inquires what master wants with him.