his is_ your work," said Covey;
"take hold of him." Bill replied, with spirit, "My master hired me here,
to work, and _not_ to help you whip Frederick." It was now my turn
to speak. "Bill," said I, "don't put your hands on me." To which he
replied, "My GOD! Frederick, I ain't goin' to tech ye," and Bill walked
off, leaving Covey and myself to settle our matters as best we might.

But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw Caroline (the
slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow yard to milk, for she was a
powerful woman, and could have mastered me very easily, exhausted as I
now was. As soon as she came into the yard, Covey attempted to rally her
to his aid. Strangely--and, I may add, fortunately--Caroline was in no
humor to take a hand in any such sport. We were all in open rebellion,
that morning. Caroline answered the command of her master to _"take hold
of me,"_ precisely as Bill had answered, but in _her_, it was at greater
peril so to answer; she was the slave of Covey, and he could do what he
pleased with her. It was _not_ so with Bill, and Bill knew it. Samuel
Harris, to whom Bill belonged, did not allow his slaves to be beaten,
unless they were guilty of some crime which the law would punish. But,
poor Caroline, like myself, was at the mercy of the merciless Covey;
nor did she escape the dire effects of her refusal. He gave her several
sharp blows.

Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the contest. Letting me
go, he said--puffing and blowing at a great rate--"Now, you scoundrel,
go to your work; I would not have whipped you half so much as I have had
you not resisted." The fact was,{190} _he had not whipped me at all_.
He had not, in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I
had drawn blood from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I should
have been victorious, because my aim had not been to injure him, but to
prevent his injuring me.

During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after this
transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger in anger.
He would, occasionally, say he did not want to have to get hold of me
again--a declaration which I had no difficulty in believing; and I had
a secret feeling, which answered, "You need not wish to get hold of me
again, for you will be likely to come off worse in a second fight than
you did in the first."

Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey--undignified as it was,
and as I fear my narration of it