“Don’t know nothing about it， Master Epps，” Ianswered him， assuming an air of ignorance and surprise；“Don’t know nothing at all about it， sir.”
“Wan’t you over to Shaw’s night before last？” he inquired.
“No， master，” was the reply.
“Hav’nt you asked that fellow， Armsby， to mail a letterfor you at Marksville？”
“Why， Lord， master， I never spoke three words to himin all my life. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well，” he continued， “Armsby told me to-day thedevil was among my niggers； that I had one that neededclose watching or he would run away； and when I axedhim why， he said you come over to Shaw’s， and wakedhim up in the night， and wanted him to carry a letter toMarksville. What have you got to say to that， ha？”
“All I’ve got to say， master，” I replied， “is， there is notruth in it. How could I write a letter without any inkor paper？ There is nobody I want to write to， ’cause Ihaint got no friends living as I know of. That Armsby is alying， drunken fellow， they say， and nobody believes himanyway. You know I always tell the truth， and that I nevergo off the plantation without a pass. Now， master， I cansee what that Armsby is after， plain enough. Did’nt hewant you to hire him for an overseer？”
“Yes， he wanted me to hire him，” answered Epps.
“That’s it，” said I， “he wants to make you believe we’reall going to run away， and then he thinks you’ll hire anoverseer to watch us. He just made that story out ofwhole cloth， ’cause he wants to get a situation. It’s all alie， master， you may depend on’t.”
Epps mused awhile， evidently impressed with theplausibility of my theory， and exclaimed.
“I’m d--d， Platt， if I don’t believe you tell the truth. Hemust take me for a soft， to think he can come it over mewith them kind of yarns， musn’t he？ Maybe he thinks hecan fool me； maybe he thinks I don’t know nothing—can’ttake care of my own niggers， eh！ Soft soap old Epps， eh！
Ha， ha， ha！ D—n Armsby！ Set the dogs on him， Platt，”
and with many other comments descriptive of Armsby’sgeneral character， and his capability of taking care of hisown business， and attending to his own “niggers，” MasterEpps left the cabin. As soon as he was gone I threw theletter in the fire， and， with a desponding and despairingheart， beheld the epistle which had cost me so muchanxiety and thought， and which I fondly hoped wouldhave been my forerunner to the land of freedom， writheand shrivel on its bed of coals， and dissolve into smokeand ashes. Armsby， the treacherous wretch， was drivenfrom Shaw’s plantation not long subsequently， much tomy relief， for I feared he might renew his conversation，and perhaps induce Epps to credit him.
I knew not now whither to look for deliverance. Hopessprang up in my heart only to be crushed and blighted. Thesummer of my life was passing away； I felt I was growingprematurely old； that a few years more， and toil， andgrief， and the poisonous miasma of the swamps wouldaccomplish their work on me—would consign me to thegrave’s embrace， to moulder and be forgotten. Repelled，betrayed， cut off from the hope of succor， I could onlyprostrate myself upon the earth and groan in unutterableanguish. The hope of rescue was the only light that casta ray of comfort on my heart. That was now flickering，faint and low； another breath of disappointment wouldextinguish it altogether， leaving me to grope in midnightdarkness to the end of life.
