"Didn't mean 'um, missus," he returns, after a moment's hesitation,
"didn't mean 'um. Was thinkin 'bout somefin back'ards; down old
plantation times."
"You had better forget them times, Bob."
"Buckra won't sell dis old nigger,--will he, Miss Frankone?" he
enquires, resuming his wonted simplicity.
"Sell you, Bob? You're a funny old man. Don't think your old
half-worn-out bones are going to save you. Money's the word: they'll
sell anything that will produce it,--dried up of age are no
exceptions. Keep out of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy's way: whenever
you hear him singing, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he
shall come,' as he always does,--run! He lives on the sale of
infirmity, and your old age would be a capital thing for the
exercise of his genius. He will put you through a course of
regeneration, take the wrinkles smooth out of your face, dye those
old grey whiskers, and get a profit for his magic power of
transposing the age of negro property," she replied, gravely, while
Bob stares at her as if doubting his own security.
"Why, missus!" he interposes, his face glowing with astonishment;
"Buckra don't be so smart dat he make old nigger young, be he?"
"Traders can do anything with niggers that have got money in them,
as they say. Our distinguished people are sensitive of the crime,
but excuse themselves with apologies they cannot make cover the
shame."
"Franke!" interrupts Marston, "spare the negro's feelings,--it may
have a bad effect.
Pages:
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516