"Take charge o' this property o' my friend's
here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits."
"Can grind 'em themselves," interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the
price, Colonel?"
"That's all straight," spreading his hands with an accompanying nod
of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the
grits at seven-pence a day."
"No objection." Mr. M'Fadden is entirely satisfied. The waiters take
the gentleman's property in charge, and conduct it to a small
building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs. It was of
logs, rough hewn, without chinking; without floor to keep Mr.
M'Fadden's property from the ground, damp and cold. Unsuited as it
is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence
have none better for their plantation people. It is about ten feet
high, seven broad, and eleven long.
"Have a dandy time on't in here to-night," says Mr. M'Fadden,
addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door
and ushers the human property into its dreary abode. Mr. M'Fadden
will step inside, to take a bird's-eye view of the security of the
place. He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher,
however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about
making his exit. He will. Approaches Harry a second time; he feels
his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous
weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere. He presses and presses his
hands to his skirts and bosom. And now he knew he was not mistaken,
for he feels something solid in the bosom of his shirt, which is not
his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering.
Pages:
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402