Mr. Yancy on
his part believed that if Murrell went to bed reasonably drunk he
would sleep late and give him the opportunity he coveted, to quit
the tavern unobserved at break of day. Gradually the ice of
silence which had held them mute at supper, thawed. At first it
was the broken lazy speech of men who were disposed to quiet,
then the talk became brisk--a steady stream of rather dreary
gossip of horses and lands and negroes, of speculations past and
gone in these great staples.
Hannibal crossed to the corn-field. There, in the friendly
gloom, he examined his handkerchief and felt of the rolled-up
bill. Then he made count of certain silver and copper coins
which he had in his other pocket. Satisfied that he had
sustained no loss, he again climbed to the top rail of the fence
where he seated himself with an elbow resting on one knee and his
chin in the palm of his hand.
"I got ten dollars and seventy cents--yes, sir--and the clostest
shooting rifle I ever tossed to my shoulder." He seemed but
small to have accomplished such a feat. He meditated for a
little space. "I reckon when we strike the settlements again I
should like to buy my Uncle Bob a present." With knitted brows
he considered what this should be, canvassing Yancy's needs. He
had about decided on a ring such as Captain Murrell was wearing,
when he heard the shuffling of bare feet over the ground and a
voice spoke out of the darkness.
"When yo' get to feelin' like sleep, young boss, Mas'r Slosson he
says I show yo' to yo' chamber.
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