A man, homeless, shelterless, breadless, friendless, and moneyless, is not in a condition to assume a very proud or joyous tone; and in just this condition was I, while wandering about the streets of New York city and lodging, at least one night, among the barrels on one of its wharves.

I was not only free from slavery, but I was free from home, as well.

The reader{265} will easily see that I had something more than the simple fact of being free to think of, in this extremity.
I kept my secret as long as I could, and at last was forced to go in search of an honest man--a man sufficiently _human_ not to betray me into the hands of slave-catchers.

I was not a bad reader of the human face, nor long in selecting the right man, when once compelled to disclose the facts of my condition to some one.
I found my man in the person of one who said his name was Stewart.

He was a sailor, warm-hearted and generous, and he listened to my story with a brother's interest.