ere dragged off doubtlessly much more quickly than they
were put on, and as soon as they were huddled together, father and son
stood listening to Sarah's voice, their eyes starting, and the
perspiration standing in great drops upon their faces.

"What will they do next?" I said to myself.

Apparently they had no plans, for Hannibal looked reproachfully at his
son and shook his head at him, his lips moving, and in a low, husky
voice he said--

"Whatebber will I do!"

A way out of the difficulty seemed to come to the younger black, for he
suddenly darted at the hat, picked it up, and dabbed it down on the
bundle of white and scarlet clothes. Then, whispering a few words to
his father--who seemed to be hanging back but to give way at last--the
boy ran to the door, dropped down on all fours so as to be hidden by the
trees from the house, and glided off almost as rapidly as some
four-legged animal.

"The young coward, to run away like that," I said to myself, as another
loud cry of "Pompey, Pompey! Where are you?" came from the front of the
house.

"Poor old Hannibal!" I thought to myself, as I saw the utterly cowed
object before me, so strangely contrasted with the dignified being a
short time back in uniform, that I could hardly restrain my merriment.

But I did not laugh out, for I was sorry for the poor fellow, and tried
to think of some way of extricating him from his difficulty, as he stood
there with the uniform huddled up in his arms.

Somehow no idea came, only a feeling of anger against the cowardly young
scoundrel of a boy, who had left his father in the lurch.

"If it was only he," I said to myself, "I'd glory in seeing old Sarah
pull his ears, a mischievous young dog!"

But there was Hannibal before me, and whenever I looked in the poor
fellow's face I never could help a feeling of respectful liking for the
unhappy slave whom I had seen lying half dead upon the bank of the
stream when we first brought him ashore.

Then with Sarah's voice still heard at intervals raging and storming, I
strove to think of a plan to get the poor fellow out of his hobble,
while at the same time, in a confused way, the scene on the bank kept
coming back, and with it thoughts of how the boy had been ready to fight
for his father then, while now he had taken to his heels and fled.

"I don't know what to do," I said at last to myself, as I felt that our
civilising had spoiled Pomp. "To go and talk to her, and tell her