Graspum thinks it better to waste no
more time in words, but to get at the particular piece of business
for which they have been called together. He is a man of money,--a
man of trade, ever willing to admit the philosophy of the
man-market, but don't see the difference of honour between the
aristocrat who sells his bits in the market, and the honourable
dealer who gets but a commission for selling them. And there's
something about the parson who, forgetting the sanctity of his
calling, sanctifies everything pertaining to slavery. Conscience, he
admits, is a wonderful thing fixed somewhere about the heart, and,
in spite of all he can do, will trouble it once in a while.
Marston-poor Marston!-he declares to be foolishly troubled with it,
and it makes him commit grievous errors. And then, there's no
understandin' it, because Marston has a funny way of keeping it
under such a knotty-looking exterior. Graspum declares he had
nothing to do with the breaking out of the cholera, is very sorry
for it,--only wants his own, just like any other honest man. He kind
o' likes Marston, admits he is a sort of good fellow in his way;
mighty careless though, wouldn't cheat anybody if he knew it, and
never gave half a minute's thinking about how uncertain the world
was. But the cholera-a dire disease among niggers-has broke out in
all the fury of its ravages; and it makes him think of his sick
niggers and paying his debts. "You see, gentlemen-we are all
gentlemen here," Graspum continues,--"a man must pay the penalty of
his folly once in a while.
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