She seemed to be all right, however, and we were making good headway as night drew on, and I was halted by Amos Thatcher who said he was on the lookout for me.
"We have a station off the road a mile or so," said he, "and you'll have a hearty welcome if you come with me--stable for your horses, and a bed to sleep in, and good victuals." I couldn't think what he meant by a station; but it was about time to make camp anyhow, and so I took him into the wagon with me, and we drove across country by a plain trail, through a beautiful piece of oak openings, to a big log house in a fine grove of burr oaks, with a log barn back of it--as nice a farmstead as I had seen.

There were fifteen or twenty cattle in the yards, and some sheep and hogs, and many fat hens.

If this was a station, I thought, I envied the man who owned it.
As we drove up I saw a little negro boy peeping at us from the back of the house, and as we halted a black woman ran out and seized the pickaninny by the ear, and dragged him back out of sight.

I heard a whimper from the little boy, which seemed suddenly smothered by something like a hand clapped over his mouth.

Mr.Dunlap's wagon was not in sight, but its owner came out at the front door and greeted me in a very friendly way.
"What makes you call this a station ?" I asked of Thatcher.
Dunlap looked at him sternly.
"I forgot myself," said Thatcher, more to Dunlap than to me.
"Never mind," replied Dunlap.