going to run it for cash.  He set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, “Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart”--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it.  Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us.  It had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and “$200 reward” under it.  The reading was all about Jim, and just described him to a dot.  It said he run away from St. Jacques' plantation, forty mile below New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. “Now,” says the duke, “after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to.  Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward.  Handcuffs and chains would look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor.  Too much like jewelry.  Ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards.” We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes.  We judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. W