"Mas'r! I don't seem to know myself,
nor nothin'. Please tell me where I am going to, and who is to be my
master? It will relieve my double troubles," he says, casting an
enquiring look at Nimrod.
"Shook up yer parson-thinkin' some, I reckon, did'nt it, old chap?"
returns Nimrod, laughing heartily, but making no further reply. He
thinks it was very much like riding in a railroad backwards.
"Did my sick mas'r sell me to you?" again he enquires.
"No business o' yourn, that ain't; yer nigger-knowin ought to tell
you how ye'd got into safe hands. We'll push along down south as
soon as ye gets some feed. Put on a straight face, and face the
music like a clever deacon, and we'll do the square in selling ye to
a Boss what 'll let ye preach now and then. (Nimrod becomes very
affectionate). Do the thing up righteous, and when yer sold there
'll be a five-dollar shiner for yerself. (He pats him on the head,
and puts his arm over his shoulder.) Best t' have a little shot in a
body's own pocket; now, shut up yer black bread-trap, and don't go
makin a fuss about where yer goin' to: that's my business!"
Harry pauses as if in contemplation; he is struggling against his
indignation excited by such remarks. He knew his old master's
weaknesses, enjoyed his indulgences; but he had never been made to
feel so acutely how degraded he could be as a mere article of trade.
It would have been some consolation to know which way he was
proceeding, and why he had been so suddenly snatched from his new
owner.
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