ill make you free. Not kite free, ob
course, but free to work in de gardin widout chains; free to sleep in de
out-house widout bein' locked up ob nights, an' free to enjoy you'self
w'en you gits de chance."

Foster looked keenly at the negro, being uncertain whether or not he was
jesting, but the solemn features of that arch "hyperkrite" were no index
to the working of his eccentric mind--save when he permitted them to
speak; then, indeed, they were almost more intelligible than the
plainest language.

"And what if I refuse to pledge my word for the sake of such freedom?"
asked our hero.

"W'y, den you'll git whacked, an' you'll 'sperience uncommon hard times,
an' you'll change you mind bery soon, so I t'ink, on de whole, you
better change 'im at once. Seems to me you's a remarkably obs'nit young
feller!"

With a sad feeling that he was doing something equivalent to locking the
door and throwing away the key, Foster gave the required promise, and
was forthwith conducted into the garden and set to work.

His dark friend supplied him with a new striped cotton shirt--his own
having been severely torn during his recent adventures--also with a pair
of canvas trousers, a linen jacket, and a straw hat with a broad rim;
all of which fitted him badly, and might have caused him some discomfort
in other circumstances, but he was too much depressed just then to care
much for anything. His duty that day consisted in digging up a piece of
waste ground. To relieve his mind, he set to work with tremendous
energy, insomuch that Peter the Great, who was looking on, exclaimed--

"Hi! what a digger you is! You'll bust up altogidder if you goes on
like dat. De moles is nuffin' to you."

But Foster heeded not. The thought that he was now doomed to hopeless
slavery, perhaps for life, was pressed home to him more powerfully than
ever, and he felt that if he was to save himself from going mad he must
work with his muscles like a tiger, and, if possible, cease to think.
Accordingly, he went on toiling till the perspiration ran down his face,
and all his sinews were strained.

"Poor boy!" muttered the negro in a low tone, "he's tryin' to dig his
own grave. But he not succeed. Many a man try dat before now and
failed. Howsomeber, it's blowin' a hard gale wid him just now--an' de
harder it blow de sooner it's ober. Arter de storm comes de calm."

With these philosophic reflections, Peter the Great went off to his own
work, lea