Diddie and Chris were more fortunate this time; they were nearer the lumber than Dilsey, and, not losing a minute, they set out for the pile as soon as Old Billy’s back was turned, and made such good time that they both reached it, and Chris had climbed to the top before he saw them; Diddie, however, was only half-way up, so he made a run at her, and butted her feet from under her, and threw her back to the ground.  This time he hurt her very much, for her head struck against the lumber, and it cut a gash in her forehead and made the blood come.  This alarmed Dumps and Tot, and they both began to cry, though they, with Riar, were safely ensconced on top of the lumber, out of all danger.  Diddie, too, was crying bitterly; and as soon as Billy ran back to butt at Dilsey, Chris and Riar caught hold of her hands and drew her up on the pile.

Poor little Dilsey was now in a very sad predicament.  Billy, seeing that the other children were out of his reach, devoted his entire time and attention to her, and her only safety was in lying flat on the ground.  If she so much as lifted her head to reconnoitre, he would plant a full blow upon it.

The children were at their wit’s end.  It was long past their dinner-time, and they were getting hungry; their clothes were all muddy, and Diddie’s dress almost torn off of her; the blood was trickling down from the gash in her forehead, and Chris was all scratched and dirty, and her eyes smarted from the sand in them.  So it was a disconsolate little group that sat huddled together on top of the lumber, while Old Billy stood guard over Dilsey, but with one eye on the pile, ready to make a dash at anybody who should be foolish enough to venture down.

“I tol’ yer not to let ‘im come,” sobbed Dumps, “an’ now I spec’ we’ll hafter stay here all night, an’ not have no supper nor nothin’.”

“I didn’t let ‘im come,” replied Diddie; “he come himself, an’ ef you hadn’t made us run away fum Mammy, we wouldn’t er happened to all this trouble.”

“I never made yer,” retorted Dumps, “you come jes ez much ez anybody; an’ ef it hadn’t er been fur you, Ole Billy would er stayed at home.  You’re all time pettin’ ‘im an’ feedin’ ’im—­ hateful old thing—­ tell he thinks he’s got ter go ev’rywhere we go.  You ought ter be ’shamed er yourse’f.  Ef I was you, I’d think myse’f too good ter be always er ‘soshatin’ with sheeps.”

“You’re mighty fond of ‘im sometimes,” said Diddie, “an’ you was mighty glad he was here jes now, to be Lord Burgoyne:  he’s jes doin’ this fur fun; an’ ef Chris was my nigger, I’d make her git down an’ drive ’im away.”

Chris belonged to Dumps, and Mammy had taught the children never to give orders to each other’s maids, unless with full permission of the owner.

“I ain’t gwine hab nuf’n ter do wid ’im,” said Chris.

“Yes you are, Chris,” replied Dumps, who had eagerly caught at Diddie’s suggestion of having him driven away.  “Get down this minute, an’ drive ‘im off; ef yer don’t, I’ll tell Mammy you wouldn’t min’ me.”