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Ef yo’ feel lonesome, Marse Benson, jes’ whistle fo’ de dawgs. Dey’ll come!” The light vanished while the mulatto’s sinister words were ringing in the boy’s ears. Would the dogs jump down? Jack knew they would, at the first false move or sound on his part. He huddled softly, stealthily, on the blankets, there in the darkness.
“Now, Ah’s gwine leave yo’ fo’ de night,” clacked the late guide. “Ef yo’ done feel lonesome, yo’ jes’ whistle de dawgs down to yo’. Dey’ll come!” While the light was still there Benson, in raging silence, gathered the blankets and arranged them. “Roll up one fo’ a pillow, under yo’ haid,” grinned the mulatto. “Dat’s all right, sah. Now, good night, Marse Benson.
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