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His naked back glistened white. It was a map on which were traced a record of the bloody cruelties of many years; it was a fine piece of mosaic–human flesh inlaid with the venom of the lash. There were scars, and seams, and ridges, and cuts that crossed and recrossed each other in all possible directions. Thus stood Baker for some time, until Mr. Clayton kindly called to him:

“Put on your shirt.”

He proceeded to obey silently, but was confused and embarrassed at this unexpected turn of events. He hesitated at first, however, for he evidently did not understand how he could put on his shirt until his hands had been released.

“Your hands are not chained,” explained Mr. Clayton.

The revelation was so unexpected that it almost startled the man from Georgia. He pulled out one hand slowly, that a sudden jerk might not lacerate his wrist. Then he pulled out the other, resumed his shirt and hat, picked up the imaginary weight, and shuffled along slowly after his leader.

“What is your name?” asked the gentleman.

“Hunder’d’n One.”

They were soon traversing the corridor in the servants’ quarter of the hotel, when Baker halted and ventured to say:

“I reckin you’r in the wrong curryder.” He was examining the ceiling, the floor, and the numbers on the doors.

“No, this is right,” said the gentleman.

Again Baker hobbled along, never releasing his hold on the invisible weight. They halted at No. 13. Said Baker, with a shade of pity in his voice,–

“‘Taint right. Wrong curryder. Cell hunder’d’n one’s mine.”

“Yes, yes; but we’ll put you in this one for the present,” replied the gentleman, as he opened the door and ushered Baker within. The room was comfortably furnished, and this perplexed Baker more and more.

“Hain’t you got it wrong?” he persisted. “Lifer, you know. Hunder’d’n One–lifer–plays off crazy–forty lashes every Monday. Don’t you know?”

“Yes, yes, I know; but we’ll not talk about that now.”

They brought a good supper to his room, and he ate ravenously. They persuaded him to wash in a basin in the room, though he begged hard to be permitted to go to the pump. Later that night the gentleman went to his room and asked him if he wanted anything.

“Well, I’ll tell you. You forgot to take it off,” Baker replied, pointing to his ankles.

The gentleman was perplexed for a moment, and then he stooped and unlocked and removed an imaginary ball and chain. Baker seemed relieved. Said the gentleman, as Baker was preparing for bed:

“This is not a penitentiary. It is my house, and I do not whip anybody. I will give you all you want to eat, and good clothes, and you may go wherever you please. Do you understand?”

Baker looked at him with vacant eyes and made no reply. He undressed, lay down, sighed wearily, and fell asleep.

II.

A stifling Southern September sun beat down upon the mountains and valleys. The thrush and the mocking-bird had been driven to cool places, and their songs were not heard in the trees. The hotel was crowded with refugees from Memphis. A terrible scourge was sweeping through Tennessee, and its black shadow was creeping down to the Gulf of Mexico; and as it crept it mowed down young and old in its path.

“Well, Baker, how are you getting along?” It was the round, cheerful voice of Mr. Clayton.

The man from Georgia was stooping over a pail, scouring it with sand and a cloth. Upon hearing the greeting he hung the cloth over the pail and came slowly to the perpendicular, putting his hands, during the operation, upon the small of his back, as if the hinges in that region were old and rusty and needed care.

“Oh, well, now, I’ll tell you. Nothin’ pertickler to complain on, excep’—-“

“Well?”

“I don’t believe it’s quite exactly right.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, now, you see–there ain’t nobody a-listenin’, is there?”

“No.”

“I think they ought to give me one more piece, any way.”