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On a dark night in January, 1858, about midnight, we were aroused by heavy steps on the piazza, and the signal of the express train of the U. G. R. R. On opening the door we saw the laughing face of the conductor from the second station west, and above his head, (he was a short man,) the face of a terribly frightened negro. “Here,” said the conductor, “is something to be done in a hurry; this is a valuable feller, I tell ye, and his master is close at his heels. You can’t conceal him here, for the old man will be down on you before morning. He’s a valuable feller, and they are sharp on his tracks.”

We had a live engine in the barn, with a light car on runners, and the first impulse was to fire up and run to the next station, where friend Andrew and his good wife had a way of circumventing slave catchers in a manner peculiar to themselves, of which more may be said at another time. This plan was, however, rejected as unsafe.

On consultation it was decided that he should be lodged in an old house back in a field, on the skirts of the village, the house belonging to an old sailor, who had been converted from so-called Democracy to humanity, by having, while commanding a vessel on Lake Erie, been pressed into service in connection with the