He welcomes him without reserve,
approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the
northerner too often manifests towards him. You shall be free, Bob!
you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain
among southerners, southerners are your friends."
"Yes, mas'r, 'im all just so good, if t'warn't dat I so old. Free
nigger, when 'e old, don't gwane to get along much. Old Bob tink on
dat mighty much, he do dat! Lef Bob free win 'e young, den 'e get
tru' de world like Buckra, only lef 'im de chance what Buckra hab.
Freedom ain't wof much ven old Bob worn out, mas'r; and Buckra what
sell nigger,--what make 'e trade on him, run 'im off sartin. He sell
old nigger what got five dollar wof' a work in 'e old bones. Mas'r
set 'um free, bad Buckra catch 'um, old Bob get used up afo' he know
nofin," quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive
knowledge of the "nigger trade," but with so much attachment for his
master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.
"It's not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me. You are
worth but little, 'tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a
bad master. If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know,
and I will prosecute them," returned Marston.
"Ah! mas'r; dat's just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! How I
gwane to let mas'r know, when mas'r no larn nigger to read," he
quickly responded. There is something in his simple remark that
Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,--something the
simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted
at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery.
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