They are going to be
dressed for the market.
The sheriff is in the yard, awaiting the preparation of the
property. Even he-iron-hearted, they say-gives them a look of
generous solicitude, as they pass out. He really feels there is a
point, no less in the scale of slave dealing, beyond which there is
something so repugnant that hell itself might frown upon it. "It's a
phase too hard, touches a body's conscience," he says, not observing
Romescos at his elbow.
"Conscience!" interrupts Romescos, his eyes flashing like meteors of
red fire, "the article don't belong to the philosophy of our
business. Establish conscience-let us, gentlemen, give way to our
feelins, and trade in nigger property 'd be deader than Chatham's
statue, what was pulled through our streets by the neck. The great
obstacle, however, is only this-it is profitable in its way!"
Romescos cautiously attempts to shield this, but it will not do.
The gaoler, protruding his head from a second-story window, like a
mop in a rain storm, enquires if it is requisite to dress the
children in their very best shine. It is evident he merely views
them as two bales of merchandise.
The sheriff, angrily, says, "Yes! I told you that already. Make them
look as bright as two new pins." His honour has been contemplating
how they will be mere pins in the market,--pins to bolt the doors of
justice, pins to play men into Congress, pins to play men out of
Congress, pins to play a President into the White House.
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