This poor broken flower of misfortune holds down her head as the
lady approaches, gives a look of melancholy expressive of shame and
remorse. "She's sensitive for a nigger, and the only one that has
said anything about being put among men," Mr. Praiseworthy remarks,
advancing a few steps, and then going from berth to berth,
descanting on the prospects of his sick, explaining their various
diseases, their improvements, and his doubts of the dying. The lady
watches all his movements, as if more intently interested in Mr.
Praiseworthy's strange character. "And here's one," he says, "I fear
I shall lose; and if I do, there's fifty dollars gone, slap!" and he
points to an emaciated yellow man, whose body is literally a crust
of sores, and whose painful implorings for water and nourishment are
deep and touching.
"Poor wretch!" Mr. Praiseworthy exclaims, "I wish I'd never bought
him-it's pained my feelings so; but I did it to save his life when
he was most dead with the rheumatics, and was drawn up as crooked as
branch cord-wood. And then, after I had got the cinques out of him-
after nearly getting him straight for a 'prime fellow' (good care
did the thing), he took the water on the chest, and is grown out
like that." He points coolly to the sufferer's breast, which is
fearfully distended with disease; saying that, "as if that wasn't
enough, he took the lepors, and it's a squeak if they don't end
him." He pities the "crittur," but has done all he can for him,
which he would have done if he hadn't expected a copper for selling
him when cured.
Pages:
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223