Then he was sitting up in a bentwood chair In a tidy kitchen that smelt of frying and ham; The thick, good smell made him strangely sick at first But it soon passed off. They fed him little by little Till at last he could tell his tale and ask about them.

They were churchgoing people and kind to runaway slaves. She wore a blue dress. They had two sons in the war. That was all that he knew and all that he ever knew. But they let him sleep in the garret and gave him some shoes And fifty cents when he left. He wanted to stay But times were bad and they couldn’t afford to keep him. The town was tired of runaway negroes now.

All the same, when he left, he walked with a different step. He went down town. He was free. He was Mister Spade. The President had written a letter about it And the mule and the coal-black gal might come any day.