Tom had been gradually sinking into a state of ghastly terror, and he said to himself, now: “I’m lost, no matter what turn things take! This man has said to me that he thinks there was something suspicious about that sale. He said he had a letter from a passenger on the Grand Mogul saying that Roxy came here on that boat and that everybody on board knew all about the case; so he says that her coming here instead of flying to a free State looks bad for me, and that if I don’t find her for him, and that pretty soon, he will make trouble for me. I never believed that story; I couldn’t believe she would be so dead to all motherly instincts as to come here, knowing the risk she would run of getting me into irremediable trouble. And after all, here she is! And I stupidly swore I would help him find her, thinking it was a perfectly safe thing to promise. If I venture to deliver her up, she—she—but how can I help myself? I’ve got to do that or pay the money, and where’s the money to come from? I—I—well, I should think that if he would swear to treat her kindly hereafter—and she says, herself, that he is a good man—and if he would swear to never allow her to be overworked, or ill fed, or—”
A flash of lightning exposed Tom’s pallid face, drawn and rigid with these worrying thoughts. Roxana spoke up sharply now, and there was apprehension in her voice—
“Turn up dat light! I want to see yo’ face better. Dah now—lemme look at you. Chambers, you’s as white as yo’ shirt! Has you see dat man? Has he be’n to see you?”
“Ye‑s.”
“When?”
“Monday noon.”
“Monday noon! Was he on my track?”
“He—well, he thought he was. That is, he hoped he was. This is the bill you saw.” He took it out of his pocket.
“Read it to me!”
She was panting with excitement, and there was a dusky glow in her eyes that Tom could not translate with certainty, but there seemed to be something threatening about it. The handbill had the usual rude woodcut of a turbaned Negro woman running, with the customary bundle on a stick over her shoulder, and the heading in bold type, “$100 Reward.” Tom read the bill aloud—at least the part that described Roxana and named the master and his St. Louis address and the address of the Fourth-street agency; but he left out the item that applicants for the reward might also apply to Mr. Thomas Driscoll.
“Gimme de bill!”
Tom had folded it and was putting it in his pocket. He felt a chilly streak creeping down his back, but said as carelessly as he could—
“The bill? Why, it isn’t any use to you, you can’t read it. What do you want with it?”
“Gimme de bill!” Tom gave it to her, but with a reluctance which he could not entirely disguise. “Did you read it all to me?”
“Certainly I did.”
“Hole up yo’ han’ en swah to it.”
Tom did it. Roxana put the bill carefully away in her pocket, with her eyes fixed upon Tom’s face all the while; then she said—
“Yo’s lyin’!”
“What would I want to lie about it for?”
“I don’t know—but you is. Dat’s my opinion, anyways. But nemmine ’bout dat. When I seed dat man I ’uz dat sk’yerd dat I could sca’cely wobble home. Den I give a nigger man a dollar for dese clo’es, en I ain’t be’n in a house sence, night ner day, till now. I blacked my face en laid hid in de cellar of a ole house dat’s burnt down, daytimes, en robbed de sugar hogsheads en grain sacks on de wharf, nights, to git somethin’ to eat, en never dast to try to buy noth’n’, en I’s ’mos’ starved. En I never dast to come near dis place till dis rainy night, when dey ain’t no people roun’ sca’cely. But tonight I be’n a-stannin’ in de dark alley ever sence night come, waitin’ for you to go by. En here I is.”
She fell to thinking. Presently she said—
“You seed dat man at noon, las’ Monday?”
“Yes.”
“I seed him de middle o’ dat arternoon. He hunted you up, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you de bill dat time?”
“No, he hadn’t got it printed yet.”
Roxana darted a suspicious glance at him.
“Did you he’p him fix up de bill?”
Tom cursed himself for making that stupid blunder, and tried to rectify it by saying he remembered, now, that it was at noon Monday that the man gave him the bill. Roxana said—
“You’s lyin’ ag’in, sho.” Then she straightened up and raised her finger:
“Now den! I’s gwine to ask you a question, en I wants to know how you’s gwine to git aroun’ it. You knowed he ’uz arter me; en if you run off, ’stid o’ stayin’ here to he’p him, he’d know dey ’uz somethin’ wrong ’bout dis business, en den he would inquire ’bout you, en dat would take him to yo’ uncle, en yo’ uncle would read de bill en see dat you be’n sellin’ a free nigger down de river, en you know him, I reckon! He’d t’ar up de will en kick you outen de house. Now, den, you answer me dis question: hain’t you tole dat man dat I would be sho’ to come here, en den you would fix it so he could set a trap en ketch me?”
Tom recognized that neither lies nor arguments could help him any longer—he was in a vise, with the screw turned on, and out of it there was no budging. His face began to take on an ugly look, and presently he said, with a snarl—
“Well, what could I do?
