Page:The White Slave, or Memoirs of a Fugitive.djvu/62

 to escape, or our chance was worth nothing. This thought pushed me on. I plucked up courage and approached the door. Three or four dogs which kept watch about the house, immediately opened in full chorus; but though they barked loud enough, they gave no signs of any intention to attack me. I knocked again; — and pretty soon, Mr Gordon thrust his head from the window, bade his dogs be quiet, and inquired who I was, and what I wanted. I begged him to open the door and let me in, for I had business with him. Expecting perhaps, to drive a profitable trade with some-midnight customer, he hastened to do as I had requested. He opened the door; the moon-light, as I entered, fell upon my face, and he recognized me at once.

"What! Archy, is it you," — and he spoke it with an air of the greatest surprise — "where, in the devil's name, did you spring from? — I hoped you were clear out of the neighborhood a month ago," — and with these words he drew me into the house and shut the door.

I told him, that I had a place of concealment near by, and that I had come to get a little assistance from him in making my escape.

"Any thing in reason, Archy; but if I were caught helping off a runaway, it would ruin me forever. There's colonel Moore, your master, and major Pringle, and captain Knight, and a half dozen more, were over here, it's only yesterday, and they swore if I did not leave off trading with the hands, they'd pull my house down about my ears, and ride me on a rail out of the county; — and now if I were caught helping you, fact, Archy, 'twould do my business for me with a witness. I'm not quite such a fool as all that."

I used tears, and flatteries, and entreaties. I reminded Mr Gordon how often he had wished for an opportunity to serve me; I told him that all I wanted was a few articles of dress, and some directions about the road I ought to follow.

"True, Archy, true; — You saved my life, boy; — I can't deny it; — and one good turn deserves another. But this business of yours is an ugly, bad business, at the best. What, the devil, must you and that wench be running away