They went out of the dining-room, their hats as ever pressed to their
breasts. With no volition of their own, their uncertain young legs
carried them to the porch. The Claiborne family and household followed
like small boys after a circus procession. When the two turned, at
bay, yet with nothing between them and liberty but a hypnotism of
their own suggestion, they saw the black faces of the servants peering
over the family shoulders.
Ross was the boy to have drawn courage from the desperation of their
case, and made some decent if not glorious ending. But at the
psychological moment there came around the corner of the house that
most contemptible figure known to the Southern plantation, a
shirt-boy--a creature who may be described, for the benefit of those
not informed, as a pickaninny clad only in a long, coarse cotton
shirt. While all eyes were fastened upon him this inglorious
ambassador bolted forth his message:
"Yo' ma say"--his eyes were fixed upon Abner--"ef yo' don' come home,
she gwine come after yo'--an' cut yo' into inch pieces wid a rawhide
when she git yo'. Dat jest what Miss Hortense say.
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