Lawrence
M'Fadden is dangerously wounded; he has a cut in the abdomen. The
poor victims attract but little attention; such little trifling
affairs are very common, scarcely worth a word of commiseration. One
gentleman insinuates that the affair has been a desperately amusing
one; another very coolly adds, that this political feed has had much
more interest in it than any preceding one.
The victims are rolled in blankets, and laid away in the corn-shed;
they will await the arrival of the coroner, who, the landlord says,
it will be no more than right to send for. They are only two dead
Crackers, however, and nobody doubts what the verdict will be. In
truth-and it must be told once in a while, even in our
atmosphere-the only loss is the two votes, which the candidate had
already secured with his meat and drink, and which have now, he
regrets, been returned to the box of death instead of his ballot.
Poor voters, now only fit to serve the vilest purpose! how degraded
in the scale of human nature is the being, only worth a suffrance at
elections, where votes cast from impulse control the balance of
power. Such beings are worth just nothing; they would not sell in
the market. The negro waiters say, "It don't make a bit of matter
how much white rubbish like this is killed, it won't fetch a bid in
the market; and when you sell it, it won't stay sold."
"Lose I dat way, Cato, might jist as well take tousand dollar
straight out o' mas'r's pocket; but dese critters b'nt notin'
nohow," says old Daniel, one of the servants, who knows the value of
his own body quite well.
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