"Well, you're innocent, ain't you!  Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up?  Some folks think the n***** ain't far from here.  I'm one of them—but I hain't talked it around.  A few days ago I was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island.  Don't anybody live there? says I. No, nobody, says they.  I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking.  I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that n*****'s hiding over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt.  I hain't seen any smoke sence, so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see—him and another man.  He was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."

I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still.  I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it.  When the woman stopped talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little.  I put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested—and I was, too—and says:

"Three hundred dollars is a power of money.  I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there to-night?"

"Oh, yes.  He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun.  They'll go over after midnight."

"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?"

"Yes.  And couldn't the n***** see better, too?  After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one."

"I didn't think of that."

The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit comfortable.  Pretty soon she says,

"What did you say your name was, honey?"

"M—Mary Williams."

Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn't look up—seemed to me I said it was Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too.  I wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was.  But now she says:

"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"

"Oh, yes'm, I did.  Sarah Mary Williams.  Sarah's my first name.  Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."

"Oh, that's the way of it?"

"Yes'm."

I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway.  I couldn't look up yet.