It was on the way home that evening that Congo spied in the sassafras
bushes beside the road a runaway slave of old Rainy-day Jones's, and
descended, with a shout, to deliver his brother into bondage.
"Hi, Ole Marster, w'at I gwine tie him wid?" he demanded gleefully.
The Major looked out of the window, and his face went white.
"What's that on his cheek, Congo?" he asked in a whisper.
"Dat's des whar dey done hit 'im, Ole Marster. How I gwine tie 'im?"
But the Major had looked again, and the awful redness rose to his brow.
"Shut up, you fool!" he said with a roar, as he dived under his seat and
brought out his brandy flask. "Give him a swallow of that--be quick, do you
hear? Pour it into your cup, sir, and give him that corn pone in your
pocket. I see it sticking out. There, now hoist him up beside you, and, if
I meet that rascal Jones, I'll blow his damn brains out!"
The Major doubtless would have fulfilled his oath as surely as his twelve
peers would have shaken his hand afterwards; but, by the time they came up
with Rainy-day a mile ahead, his wrath had settled and he had decided that
"he didn't want such dirty blood upon his hands."
So he took a different course, and merely swore a little as he threw a roll
of banknotes into the road. "Don't open your mouth to me, you hell hound,"
he cried, "or I'll have you whipped clean out of this county, sir, and
there's not a gentleman in Virginia that wouldn't lend a hand.
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