sn't get here by evening, I'll run up there."

In the evening, he did take the train for Joshua's place of
employment, where he learned that his slave had left the night before.
But where could he have gone? That no one knew, and for the first time
it dawned upon his master that Josh had run away. He raged; he fumed;
but nothing could be done until morning, and all the time Leckler knew
that the most valuable slave on his plantation was working his way
toward the North and freedom. He did not go back home, but paced the
floor all night long. In the early dawn he hurried out, and the hounds
were put on the fugitive's track. After some nosing around they set
off toward a stretch of woods. In a few minutes they came yelping
back, pawing their noses and rubbing their heads against the ground.
They had found the trail, but Josh had played the old slave trick of
filling his tracks with cayenne pepper. The dogs were soothed, and
taken deeper into the wood to find the trail. They soon took it up
again, and dashed away with low bays. The scent led them directly to a
little wayside station about six miles distant. Here it stopped.
Burning with the chase, Mr. Leckler hastened to the station agent.
Had he seen such a negro? Yes, he had taken the northbound train two
nights before.

"But why did you let him go without a pass?" almost screamed the
owner.

"I didn't," replied the agent. "He had a written pass, signed James
Leckler, and I let him go on it."

"Forged, forged!" yelled the master. "He wrote it himself."

"Humph!" said the agent, "how was I to know that? Our niggers round
here don't know how to write."

Mr. Leckler suddenly bethought him to hold his peace. Josh was
probably now in the arms of some northern abolitionist, and there was
nothing to be done now but advertise; and the disgusted master spread
his notices broadcast before starting for home. As soon as he arrived
at his house, he sought his wife and poured out his griefs to her.

"You see, Mrs. Leckler, this is what comes of my goodness of heart. I
taught that nigger to read and write, so that he could protect
himself,--and look how he uses his knowledge. Oh, the ingrate, the
ingrate! The very weapon which I give him to defend himself against
others he turns upon me. Oh, it's awful,--awful! I've always been too
confiding. Here's the most valuable nigger on my plantation
gone,--gone, I tell you,--and through my own kindness. It isn't his
value, though, I'm