Pity, almost, that such a clergyman should be a
slave."
"You don't say so, Doctor, do you? Well! I've lost him just when I
wanted him most."
"He is not dead?" enquires the physician, suddenly interrupting. He
had seen Mr. M'Fadden's courage fail at the approach of death, and
again recover quickly when the distance widened between that monitor
and himself, and could not suppress the smile stealing over his
countenance.
"Dead! no indeed. Worse-he has run away!" Mr. M'Fadden quickly
retorted, clenching his right hand, and scowling. In another minute
he turns back the sheets, and, with returned strength, makes a
successful attempt to sit up in bed. "I don't know whether I'm
better or worse; but I think it would be all right if I warn't
worried so much about the loss of that preacher. I paid a tremendous
sum for him. And the worst of it is, my cousin deacon Stoner, of a
down-east church, holds a mortgage on my nigger stock, and he may
feel streaked when he hears of the loss;" Mr. M'Fadden concludes,
holding his side to the physician, who commences examining the
wound, which the enfeebled man says is very sore and must be dressed
cautiously, so that he may be enabled to get out and see to his
property.
To the great surprise of all, the wound turns out to be merely a
slight cut, with no appearance of inflammation, and every prospect
of being cured through a further application of a very small bit of
dressing plaster.
The physician smiled, mine host smiled; it was impossible to
suppress the risible faculties.
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