Fate had not ordained this for him; oh no! He must resign
himself without making any further enquiries; he must be nothing
more than a nigger--happy nigger happily subdued! Seating himself
upon the floor, in a recumbent position, he drops his face on his
knees,--is humbled among the humblest. He is left alone for some
time, while his captors, retiring into an adjoining room, hold a
consultation.
Breakfast is being prepared, and much conversation is kept up in an
inaudible tone of voice. Harry has an instinctive knowledge that it
is about him, for he hears the words, "Peter! Peter!" his name must
be transmogrified into "Peter!" In another minute he hears dishes
rattling on the table, and Bengal distinctly complimenting the
adjuncts, as he orders some for the nigger preacher. This excites
his anxiety; he feels like placing his ear at the keyhole,--doing a
little evesdropping. He is happily disappointed, however, for the
door opens, and a black boy bearing a dish of homony enters, and,
placing it before him, begs that he will help himself. Harry takes
the plate and sets it beside him, as the strange boy watches him
with an air of commiseration that enlists his confidence. "Ain't
da'h somefin mo' dat I can bring ye?" enquires the boy, pausing for
an answer.
"Nothing,--nothing more!"
Harry will venture to make some enquiries about the locality. "Do
you belong to master what live here?" He puts out his hand, takes
the other by the arm.
"Hard tellin who I belongs to.
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