But there warn’t no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout⁠—and then another⁠—and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn’t no use⁠—old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn’t help it. But I couldn’t set still long. Pretty soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if he’d seen a strange nigger dressed so-and-so, and he says:

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts?” says I.

“Down to Silas Phelps’ place, two mile below here. He’s a runaway nigger, and they’ve got him. Was you looking for him?”

“You bet I ain’t! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he’d cut my livers out⁠—and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come out.”