They told him at the tavern I'd
gone away, up to Washington to consult the President about something,
but that I'd be back in two days. I never saw a man look so white as
he did when he rode past the place where I was hiding, on his way back
home. I hung around the post-office all day, knowing just as sure as
shootin' that he'd write to the nigger, wherever he was. Sure enough,
about two o'clock up comes the darky that had admitted me the day
before, bringing a couple of letters.
"He stuck 'em in his pocket while he hitched his horse to the rack. I
bumped into him accidental-like. 'Nough said. A minute later he was
lookin' everywhere on the ground for his letters, and he was scairt,
too, I'll tell you that. I went back and asked him if he was lookin'
for his letters. He said he was. I said 'you dropped 'em in the
wagon.' I reached in and made believe to pick 'em up. I'd had 'em long
enough to see that one was addressed to I. Perry, 212 Clark Street,
Chicago."
"Chicago," cried David excitedly. "You must give me that address,
Dick."
"The other was to John Brainard, Richmond," went on Dick
imperturbably.
Pages:
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281