The Underground Railroad Read Free Page B

turned on the devices. “It looks like Mr. Douglass isn’t home.”

A Word with Mr. Douglass
London—1846
    W e turned from the doorstep and walked down the slippery steps toward the street. At that moment the rain picked up and began flowing off the professor’s umbrella like it was being poured from a bucket.
    â€œWhat do we do now, professor?” Tamika asked.
    Professor Tuesday sighed deeply. “I suppose we can walk around and look at London as it was in 1846. Maybe Mr. Douglass will come home, but we must find him soon or we won’t be able to talk with him.” The professor looked at his watch. “The teleporter will only stay open for another hour or so.”
    A horse-drawn carriage passed us on the street. I turned to see it come to a stop in front of the house we had just left. “Professor, look!”
    A distinguished man stepped out of the carriage. His skin was dark. The collar of his coat was up, protecting him from the weather. A thick crop of black hair flowed out of his black stovepipe hat and stood above the folds of his coat.
    I pointed back toward the man. “Could that be Mr. Douglass?” I asked.
    â€œLet’s find out,” said the professor. We rushed toward him.
    â€œMr. Douglass!” the professor shouted above the rain. “Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Douglass?”
    The man tipped his hat to the professor and our Tuesday Translators crackled to life. “Yes, sir, I am. How may I help you?”
    The professor reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Douglass, I have waited a long time to meet you. My friends and I have come all the way from America to talk with you.”
    Mr. Douglass looked us over carefully. He must have realized that we wouldn’t cause him any harm. A big smile crossed his face. “Come in out of this miserable weather and join me for tea.”
    The professor shook the rain off his umbrella and we entered the house. We hung our coats on wooden pegs that poked out of the walls in the entryway.
    Mr. Douglass called out and the woman we had talked to earlier appeared. He introduced her as his housekeeper, Miss Kensington. She curtsied politely. Mr. Douglass then asked her for some tea for himself and the professor and milk for Tamika and me. The woman curtsied once again and left. We followed Mr. Douglass through a large doorway.
    He led us to a beautiful room. Long drapes flowed from the tops of the windows to the floor. A colorful rug was placed at the center of the room. A fire in the fireplace at one end offered warmth and comfort. At one side of the room, a flowery, old-looking couch squatted against the wall. A low table stood in front of the couch and wooden chairs sat at each end.
    Mr. Douglass gestured and spoke, “Please have a seat,” he said. “Our tea and refreshments will arrive soon.”
    The professor joined Mr. Douglass on the couch as Tamika and I sat in the chairs. The wooden seats creaked slightly as we sat down.
    â€œThank you for taking the time to see us. My name is Professor Tuesday,” the professor began. “These are my friends Jesse and Tamika and we have come here to learn about you and your life.”
    Mr. Douglass turned to Tamika and stared at her directly. His eyes were strong and seemed to look right through her. “Let me see your hands, child.”
    Tamika turned to me with a shocked look on her face. Then she slowly raised her hands to Mr. Douglass.
    â€œNo,” Mr. Douglass said. “Please come here and show me your hands.”
    Tamika stood up slowly and edged her way to Mr. Douglass. Then she held out her hands. Mr. Douglass gently took her hands. He held them close to his eyes and looked them over carefully. His rough, workhardened hands traced her palms and fingers. Then he took a long look at Tamika’s face.
    â€œYour hands aren’t cut and calloused,” he said, “and your eyes don’t show the sorrow or