"Here! This way!" summoned Tom.
"Are you hurt?" sounded Mr. Prenter's voice.
"No; but we have Sambo Ebony here, and he's going to be hurt if he tries
to stir."
President and treasurer of the Melliston Company raced to the spot. Barely
sixty seconds afterward Foreman Corbett, with four negroes and one Italian
laborer, also came up.
"Corbett, you have the handcuffs I gave you the other night, haven't you?"
Tom asked.
"Yes, sir. Here they are."
Tom took the steel bracelets, ordering Mr. Sambo Ebony to turn over and
lie face downward, with his hands behind his back. Then the handcuffs were
slipped over the black wrists.
"Now, Sambo," called Tom laughingly, "we'll set you on your feet and
whistle the rogues' march for you all the way."
"Yah, yah, yah!" jeered one of the negroes who had come up with Foreman
Corbett, as he gazed contemptuously up and down the bulky figure of Mr.
Ebony. "Yo' done been tellin' us 'spectable cullud fo'ks dat de great way
to injye life was to be tough an' smaht, lak yo'se'f. How ye' feel erbout
it now? Doan' yo' wish yo' been mo' 'spectable yo'se'f? Doan' ye' done
wish dat ye' had been to camp-meeting a few times in yo' life? Doan' yo'
wish ye' been honest most er de time, an' been a hahd-wo'kin',
pay-ye'-bills niggah lak some ob de rest oh us? Yo' fool lump er tar,
yo' boun' ter go de way ob all de wicked---down to ye' grave in misery an'
sorrow.
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