Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way
to market. They are not dangerous property;--they have their
feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.
The gang is ready. The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates
himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his
establishment. Romescos will put them through a few evolutions
before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right,
and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and
counter-march several times round the yard. This done, the generous
gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office: he has a good glass of
whiskey waiting their superior tastes.
The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the
property, linked in iron fellowship,--the gentlemen having taken
their whiskey,--are all ready for the word, march! This significant
admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn
procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage. Tramp, tramp,
tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in
broken file, through the long aisles. Romescos is in high glee,--his
feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick
over his head. They are soon in the street, where he invites them to
strike up a lively song--"Jim crack corn, and I don't care, fo'h
Mas'r's gone away!" he shouts; and several strike up, the rest
joining in the old plantation chorus--"Away! away! away! Mas'r's
gone away.
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