"
"How long?"
"Well, nigh on to three weeks."
They saw Yancy's eyes widen with a look of dumb horror.
"Three weeks!" he at length repeated, and groaned miserably. He
was thinking of Hannibal.
"You was mighty droll to look at when I fished you up out of the
river," continued Mr. Cavendish. "You'd been cut and beat up
scandalous!"
"And you don't know nothing about my nevvy?--you ain't seen or
heard of him, ma'am?" faltered Yancy, and glanced up into Polly's
comely face.
Polly shook her head regretfully.
"How come you in the river?" asked Cavendish.
"I reckon I was throwed in. It was a man named Murrell and
another man named Slosson. They tried fo' to murder me--they
wanted to get my nevvy--I 'low they done it!" and Yancy groaned
again.
"You'll get him back," said Polly soothingly.
"Could you-all put me asho'?" inquired Yancy, with sudden
eagerness.
"We could, but we won't," said Cavendish, in no uncertain tone.
"Why, la!--you'd perish!" exclaimed Polly.
"Are we far from where you-all picked me up?"
Cavendish nodded. He did not like to tell Yancy the distance
they had traversed.
"Where are you-all taking me?" asked Yancy.
"Well, stranger, that's a question I can't answer offhand. The
Tennessee are a twister; mebby it will be Kentucky; mebby it will
be Illinoy, and mebby it will be down yonder on the Mississippi.
My tribe like this way of moving about, and it certainly favors a
body's legs."
"How old was your nevvy?" inquired Polly, reading the troubled
look in Yancy's gray eyes.
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