The sheriff is not rude; he
approaches Harry, tells him he is a good boy, has no objection to
his praying, and hopes a good master will buy him. He will do all he
can to further his interests, having heard a deal about his talents.
He says this with good-natured measure, and proceeds to take a
cursory view of the felons. While he is thus proceeding, the
gentlemen of trade who accompanied him are putting "the property"
through a series of examinations.
"Property like this ye don't start up every day," says one. "Best
I'ze seen come from that ar' district. Give ye plenty corn, down
there, don't they, boys?" enjoins another, walking among them, and
every moment bringing the end of a small whip which he holds in his
right hand about their legs. This, the gentleman remarks, is merely
for the purpose-one of the phrases of the very honourable trade-of
testing their nimbleness.
"Well!" replies a tall, lithe dealer, whose figure would seem to
have been moulded for chasing hogs through the swamp, "There's some
good bits among it; but it won't stand prime, as a lot!" The
gentleman, who seems to have a nicely balanced mind for judging the
human nature value of such things, is not quite sure that they have
been bacon fed. He continues his learned remarks. "Ye'h han't had
full tuck out, I reckon, boys?" he inquires of them, deliberately
examining the mouths and nostrils of several. The gentleman is very
cool in this little matter of trade; it is an essential element of
southern democracy; some say, nothing more!
"Yes, Boss!" replies Enoch, one of the negroes; "Mas'r ollers good
t' e niggers, gin him bacon free times a week-sometimes mo' den
dat.
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