He seemed, even while cautioning me, to be fearing lest, after all, I might be a party to a second attempt to recapture him.

Under the inspiration of this thought, I must suppose it was, he gave signs of a wish to get rid of me, and soon left me his whitewash brush in hand--as he said, for his work.

He was soon lost to sight among the throng, and I was alone again, an easy prey to the kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my track.
New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety for a runaway slave than now, and all know how unsafe it now is, under the new fugitive slave bill.

I was much troubled.

I had very little money enough to buy me a few loaves of bread, but not enough to pay board, outside a lumber yard.