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One thing was always observable, by which we knew a fugitive slave from an imposter, namely, a restless, sharp sense of danger, a sudden start if a person was heard approaching the house, while the opening of a door or the barking of a dog would produce in them intense excitement.

One of our most active agents lived in the town of New Haven, Oswego Co., within sight of Lake Ontario. He was a farmer by the name of French. Going, one evening, to return his cows to the pasture, he saw a man in the woods suddenly coming into sight, and then trying to hide. Going towards him, the man moved off, but seemed unable to run from some cause. French ran towards him and told him to stop. As he approached he saw that the man was a negro, and thinking he was a fugitive, said to him, “Don’t be afraid, I am an abolitionist;” whereupon the poor fellow put forth all the strength he had to effect his escape, but it was a feeble effort, and he soon fell to the ground. When Mr. French came up to him the man began begging for his life. “Don’t be frightened,” said French, “we are all abolitionists in this neighborhood.” “Yes, massa,” said the negro, “but den ye see I’se good for nufhn, I’se so pore, only bones and skin; I’se eat nuffin amost dese six weeks—do massa, let me lib!” “Come with me,” said