In the car-a dungeon-like box about ten feet square, the only
aperture for admitting light being a lattice of about eight inches
square, in the door-are three rough negro men and one woman, the
latter apparently about twenty years of age.
"Got a tall chap here, boys! Make ye stand round some, in pickin'
time; and can preach, too." M'Fadden shakes his head exultingly!
"Can put in the big licks preachin'; and I'ze goin' t' let 'im, once
in a while. Goin' t' have good times on my place, boys--ha'h! Got a
jug of whiskey to have a fandango when ye gits home. Got it
somewhere, I knows." Mr. M'Fadden exults over the happy times his
boys have at home. He shakes himself all over, like a polar bear
just out of the water, and laughs heartily. He has delivered himself
of something that makes everybody else laugh; the mania has caught
upon his own subtle self. The negroes laugh in expressive
cadences, and shrug their shoulders as Mr. M'Fadden continues to
address them so sportively, so familiarly. Less initiated persons
might have formed very satisfactory opinions of his character. He
takes a peep under one of the seats, and with a rhapsody of laughter
draws forth a small jug. "You can't come the smuggle over me, boys!
I knew ye had a shot somewhere," he exclaims. At his bidding, the
woman hands him a gourd, from which he very deliberately helps
himself to a stout draught.
"Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr.
M'Fadden addresses himself to his preacher.
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