m their master, but they hain't nary idee whar
to go when they run away. A hoss has more sense 'n either a nigger or a
mule. When he lights out he's got some idee o' where he wants t' go.
I tell you; jest give that nigger to me. I know what to do with him.
I know a man that'll give me $100 for him, and I'll whack up fair and
square with you."

"Shut up, you mullet-headed mule-whacker," said the Deacon irritably.
"You hain't got sense enough to take care o' mules right, let alone a
man. I wouldn't trust you an hour with the poorest team on my place.
I'll take care o' this man myself, at least, until I kin have a talk
with the boys. Here, you nigger, what's your name?"{254}

"Dey call me Sam, mas'r," replied the negro.

"Well, we'll change that. You're a free man, and I'll give you another
name. I'm goin' to call you Abraham--Abraham Lincoln the grandest name
in the world to-day. For short I'll call you Abe. You must stop callin'
me, or anybody, master, I tell you. You just call be Mister Klegg."

"Mistuh what?" said the negro, puzzled.

"Well, jest call me boss. Now, Abe, climb up into the wagon here, and
come along with me."{255}

"He can't git into no wagon o' mine," said the teamster surlily.
"Government wagons ain't no passenger coaches for runaway niggers. I
didn't hire to haul niggers on pleasure excursions. That ain't no part
of a white man's bizniss. Let him walk alongside."

"You dumbed citizen," said the Deacon angrily. He had been in camp
long enough to catch the feeling of the men toward the Quartermaster's
civilian employees. "This man shall ride in this wagon along side o' me,
and you'll drive us into camp, or I'll find out the reason why. Now jest
gether up your lines and start."

"I won't take no slack from no old Wabash hayseed like you," responded
the teamster cordially. "You can't boss me. You hain't no right. You
can't ring me in to help you steal niggers, unless you divide with me.
You come out here in the road and I'll punch that old sorrel-top head o'
your'n."

And the teamster pranced out and brandished his blacksnake whip
menacingly.

It had been many years since anybody on the Wabash had dared Deacon
Klegg to a match in fisticuffs. The memory of some youthful performances
of his had secured him respectful immunity. His last affair had been
a severe suppression of a noted bully who attempted to "crowd the
mourners" at a camp-meeting for the good order of which the Deacon felt
himself