WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads.

When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise.

We scrouched down and laid still.

Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him.

He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening.