“Whar dat gran’boy o’ you’n?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Ain’ he in de gyardin?”

“No, he ain’.  Does you know whar he is?  Bettah tell me de truf.  Mout sabe you a heap ob trouble.”

“Des you min’ yo’ business, en doan cum trapesin’ yere ’bout Chunk.  You talks ez ef you own ’im.”

“Ole mars’r tinks he own ‘im, en he des a yellin’ fer ’im.  De oberseer hollerin’, too, en de lil niggahs runnin’ yere, dar, en yander lookin’ fer ’im.  Yere one ob um now.”

With new and direful forebodings Aun’ Jinkey declared loudly:  “I doan know what he be.  He ain’ say not’n ter me ’bout gwine anywhar.”

Uttering an angry and contemptuous exclamation, Zany sped back, and, with a scared look, said to Miss Lou, “Aun’ Jinkey ’clar she dunno not’n ‘bout Chunk’s doin’s.  Ef she ain’ foolin’ me, I des belebe he’s runned away.”

At these tidings and at this suggestion the young girl was almost distracted.  She went instantly to the cabin, supposing that it would soon be searched.

“Mammy!” she exclaimed, “where’s Chunk?”

“Fo’ de Lawd, honey, I doan know.  I des gwine all ter pieces wid de goin’s on.”

“But people will be here looking.  Is he up there?” asked the girl in a whisper.

“No, he des lit out two hour ago, en he guv me dis” (showing the money), “en say he see me agin.  I’se feared he’n Chunk gwine off togeder.”

“Well, you don’t know.  Hide the money and declare you don’t know anything.  I’ll stand by you as far as I can.”

As she hastened back she saw a Confederate soldier running toward the house and Perkins limping after him as fast as possible.  Entering the rear door she heard the soldier demanding fiercely of her uncle, “Where’s that cursed nigger you call Chunk?”

“Whom are you addressing, sir?” asked Mr. Baron, indignantly.

“Well, see yere, boss,” was the excited reply, “this ere ain’t no time fer standin’ on nice words.  That cursed nigger o’ your’n took the lieutenant’s horse ter the run fer a drink, an one o’ your’n ’long of him, en me en Perkins kyant find nary one of ’em.”

“Yes, sir,” added Perkins in great wrath, “we uns follered the hoof-prints ter the run en inter the water, en there’s no hoof-prints comin’ back.  That infernal nigger has lit out with the two horses.”

“Why don’t you go after him then?” shouted Mr. Baron, distracted with anger and accumulating perplexities.  “He can’t be far yet.”

“I’d like ter see the hoss on this place that could ketch the lieutenant’s black mare.  Oh, why didn’t I shoot the nigger?” and the soldier strode up and down as if demented.

“You deserve to be shot yourself, sir, if you, who had been placed on guard, permitted that black rascal to take the horses.”

“Yes,” replied the soldier, desperately, “en the lieutenant is ther man ter shoot me—­cuss his red-hot blood!” and he stalked away toward the stables as if possessed by a sudden resolve.