But finally I did get my last iron off, and was a
free man once more. I took a good breath of
relief, and reached for the king’s irons.
Too late! in comes the master, with a light in one
hand and his heavy walking-staff in the other.
I snuggled close among the wallow of snorers, to
conceal as nearly as possible that I was naked of
irons; and I kept a sharp lookout and prepared to spring
for my man the moment he should bend over me.
But he didn’t approach. He stopped, gazed
absently toward our dusky mass a minute, evidently
thinking about something else; then set down his light,
moved musingly toward the door, and before a body
could imagine what he was going to do, he was out of
the door and had closed it behind him.
“Quick!” said the king. “Fetch
him back!”
Of course, it was the thing to do, and I was up and
out in a moment. But, dear me, there were no
lamps in those days, and it was a dark night.
But I glimpsed a dim figure a few steps away.
I darted for it, threw myself upon it, and then there
was a state of things and lively! We fought
and scuffled and struggled, and drew a crowd in no
time. They took an immense interest in the fight
and encouraged us all they could, and, in fact, couldn’t
have been pleasanter or more cordial if it had been
their own fight. Then a tremendous row broke
out behind us, and as much as half of our audience
left us, with a rush, to invest some sympathy in that.
Lanterns began to swing in all directions; it was
the watch gathering from far and near. Presently
a halberd fell across my back, as a reminder, and
I knew what it meant. I was in custody.
So was my adversary. We were marched off toward
prison, one on each side of the watchman. Here
was disaster, here was a fine scheme gone to sudden
destruction! I tried to imagine what would happen
when the master should discover that it was I who
had been fighting him; and what would happen if they
jailed us together in the general apartment for brawlers
and petty law-breakers, as was the custom; and what
might—
Just then my antagonist turned his face around in
my direction, the freckled light from the watchman’s
tin lantern fell on it, and, by George, he was the
wrong man!
AN AWFUL PREDICAMENT
Sleep? It was impossible. It would naturally
have been impossible in that noisome cavern of a jail,
with its mangy crowd of drunken, quarrelsome, and
song-singing rapscallions. But the thing that
made sleep all the more a thing not to be dreamed of,
was my racking impatience to get out of this place
and find out the whole size of what might have happened
yonder in the slave-quarters in consequence of that
intolerable miscarriage of mine.
