"It seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. Now, who is it?" he demanded, authoritatively. I made no reply.
"I say, who wrote that letter?" he demanded again.
"Perhaps I wrote it myself," I said.
"You haven't been to Marksville post-office and back before light, I know."
He insisted upon my informing him, and I insisted I would not. He made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon him, when he found him out. His whole manner and language exhibited a feeling of anger towards the unknown person who had written for me, and of fretfulness at the idea of losing so much property. Addressing Mr. Northup, he swore if he had only had an hour's notice of his coming, he would have saved him the trouble of taking me back to New-York; that he would have run me into the swamp, or some other place out of the way, where all the sheriffs on earth couldn't have found me.