Mr.
M'Fadden's anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its
shapes, and watches the changes of Harry's countenance. "Book,
ha'h!" he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with
his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry
firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal
machine. "Book, ha'h!"
"Pull it out, old buck. That's the worst o' learned niggers; puts
the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes 'em carry
their conceit right into nigger stubbornness, so ye have t' bring it
out by lashin' and botherin'. Can't stand such nigger nonsense
nohow."
Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even
the worm will turn. He draws forth the book,--it is the Bible, his
hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart
that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression. "What man can he
be who feareth the word of God, and says he is of his chosen?
Master, that's my Bible: can it do evil against righteousness? It is
the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide--"
"Your spirit?" inquires M'Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry. "A
black spirit, ye' mean, ye' nigger of a preacher. I didn't buy that,
nor don't want it. 'Taint worth seven coppers in picking time. But I
tell ye, cuff, wouldn't mind lettin' on ye preach, if a feller can
make a spec good profit on't." The gentleman concludes, contracting
his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.
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