"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone."
"Sold him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he was my nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?—I want my nigger."
"Well, you can't get your nigger, that's all—so dry up your blubbering. Looky here—do you think you'd venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you was to blow on us—"
He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:
"I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger."
He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. At last he says:
"I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him."
So I promised, and he says:
"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph—" and then he stopped. You see he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped, that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned lie was changing his mind. And so he was. He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty soon he says: "The man that bought him is named Abram Foster—Abram G. Foster—and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to Lafayette."
"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start this very afternoon."
"No you won't, you'll start now; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. Just
