"Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly; "thar's Bruno--he's a roarer!
and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur or
uther."

"Poh!" said Haley,--and he said something else, too, with regard to the
said dogs, at which Sam muttered,

"I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way."

"But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don't) for
trackin' out niggers."

Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and
desperate simplicity.

"Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they's the kind,
though they han't never had no practice. They 's _far_ dogs, though,
at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called,
whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously
toward them.

"You go hang!" said Haley, getting up. "Come, tumble up now."

Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as
he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to
Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip.

"I 's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity. "This
yer's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makin' game. This yer an't