"It's all right, sir," the youngster said. "None of the chickens are
gone."

"A great deal of fuss and no feathers," said Mr. Snelson. "I doubt but
it was a mink."

"Yes," said Joe, laughing. "It must have been a Mink, and I'm going to
set a bait for him."

"In all this dark?" asked the printer. "Why, I could stand in the door
and crush it wit' me teeth."

"Why, yes," replied Joe. "I'll take some biscuit and a piece of corn
bread, and scatter them around the hen-house, and if the mink comes back
he'll get the bread and leave the chickens alone."

"Capital!" exclaimed Mr. Snelson, slapping Joe on the back. "I says to
mother here, says I, 'As sure as you're born to die, old woman, that
B'y has got the stuff in 'im that they make men out of.' I said them very
words. Now didn't I, mother?"

Joe got three biscuits and a pone of cornbread and carried them to Mink.
The negro had freed his hand, and he loomed up in the darkness as tall
as a giant.

"Why, you seem to be as big as a horse," said Joe.

"Thanky, little marster, thanky. Yes, suh, I'm a mighty stout nigger,
an' ef marster would des make dat overseer lemme 'lone I'd do some
mighty good work, an' I'd a heap druther do it dan ter be hidin' out in
de swamp dis away like some wil' varmint. Good-night, little marster."

"Good-night!" said Joe.

"God bless you, little marster!" cried Mink, as he vanished in the
darkness.

That night in Joe Maxwell's dreams the voice of the fugitive came back
to him, crying, "God bless you, little marster!"

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