gossiping doctor, and had chiefly conciliated
the Virginians by my talents as a listener. Of
course it was known that I frequently visited
the Quaker’s house, but people probably
concluded that one of the girls, or perhaps one of
the two or three younger children, had a touch
of fever; and as the Clays held little intercourse
with the townsfolk, nobody cared to ask questions
on that point.

When I got back to Morgan Town that
afternoon, I found the place full of unusual
bustle. On several stumps and walls, appeared
flaring placards of red or blue paper, offering
two thousand dollars reward for the apprehension
of Cato Hammond, the property of Paul
Randolph, of the Myrtles estate. Then, followed
a minute description of the runaway, to which
was appended these words: “Should the
escaped mulatto resist, as, from his desperate
character, is probable, citizens can have the
same reward paid on production of his head, to
be identified,” &c.

“Gracious Heavens!” I gasped out, as I
perused this atrocious manifesto; “can such a
notice as this be publicly posted in a Christian
country?”

“Halloa, there! Doctor, doctor!” cried a
shrill voice from the open door of a neighbouring
tavern; “come here, my gallant Britisher,
and liquor.”

I turned my head, and saw Major Blight,
rather flushed with drink, beckoning to me with
excited gestures. He was not alone. Besides
the bar-keeper, the landlord, and two or three
citizens, I saw more than one sinister-visaged
stranger; and before the door stood three horses,
while four huge dogs lay asleep in front of the
house, secured by chains. The major, who had
a real liking for me, would hear of no denial; I
was obliged to enter on this scene of rough
revelry.

“Brandy cocktails or mint juleps, eh, doctor?
Mint ju, eh? Juleps round, mister!”

The bar-keeper filled the glasses with his
accustomed alacrity.

“Glad you’re come,” cried the half-tipsy
officer; “glad you’re here to welcome these
gentlemen into the town. Let me introduce you,
Dr. Mylner, to Elkanah Pogus—Captain Elkanah
Pogus—who does us the favour to hunt down all
tarnation black skulkers; don’t ye, Cap.?”

“I do my endeavours in my line, major,”
responded the redoubted Elkanah; showing his
tobacco-stained teeth in a frightful grin.

I never saw a fiercer or more repulsive
ruffian. He was a big rawboned Georgian of
about forty, with a face marked by drink and
evil passions, and scarred by several ill-healed
wounds which his bushy beard but partially
concealed. He had been a convict, it was said, and
had committed many crimes before embracing
his present calling. But he was at the head of
his profession—the most ferocious and crafty
hunter after men, in all the South. He was
showily dressed, and wore his pistols and bowie-
knife ostentatiously displayed in his belt.

“Yes,” cried the major, “we won’t be put
upon, I guess. Our committee have come to
tarms with Elkanah here, and he’s come to rout
out that rascal Cato.”

And the major smiled benignly on two subordinate
ruffians—a haggard white, and a treacherous-
eyed Indian half-breed, who stood by: also
well-armed, and booted for the road.

“You forget these, major,” said the captain
of negro-hunters, as he tossed off his julep and
kicked his foot towards the dogs lying without.

“No, I do not,” replied the major, rubbing
his hands; “no, indeed, I do not. Those pups,
doctor, are the Cap.’s lapdogs, they are; blood-
hounds of the true Spanish breed, and as true to
a nigger’s trail as my rifle-ball to a jumping
squirrel.”

“You may say that!” chimed in Captain
Pogus.

And then he began to tell a number of
boastful anecdotes concerning the exploits of his
dogs, his assistants, and himself. For the credit
of human nature, I can only hope that those
sickening tales of cruelty and persecution were
mostly fabulous. If half of them were true,
Captain Pogus deserved hanging. Tired of
listening to this miscreant’s bragging concerning
Maroons shot, stabbed, torn by dogs, smothered
in quagmires, I was slipping out, when the
following speech arrested my attention:

“Take my oath for it, gentlemen, there’s a
cussed abolitionist at the bottom of this
business. Let me clap my eyes on the critter that
shelters that Cato, and I’ll make him a caution
to Crockett, I will! Scalp me, but I’ll treat the
traitor wuss than iver Red Injun polished off a
prisoner! There’s but one thing I hate wuss
than rattlers and pison, and that’s a nigger;
and there’s but one thing I hate wuss than a
nigger, and that’s a darned abolitionist.”

The man-hunter ended his speech with a
salvo of oaths, and the cordial applause of the
company. I went home. Somehow, the savage
threats of Elkanah Pogus rang in my ears, and
chilled the blood in my veins, in spite of myself.
I was no abolition agent. I ran no risk of
incurring the wretch’s vengeance; and yet, I was
ill at ease. An hour later, as I came out of the
stable where I had been inspecting my horses,
and giving Sam, and Pompey my coachman,
their orders for the next day, I saw a dark
figure peering in at the open gateway. One
glance, and it vanished; but I thought it bore a
strong resemblance to the half-bred Indian, one
of Captain Elkanah’s subalterns. As I smoked
my cigar in the verandah after dusk, Sam was
whistling at the gate. A man came up with
noiseless step, and conversed with him for some
moments in an easy manner. The moonlight
fell on his face and lank black hair. The half-
bred Indian again!

He did not stay long, but wished Sam a gruff
good night, and turned on his heel. And
everything was quiet and peaceful, as usual, when I
laid my head on my pillow to dream of England
and Jane.

Next day, at the appointed hour, my
carriage came round to the door, and I took