Graspum, a man of great experience, whose keen sense of
justice is made keener by his sense of practical injustice,--thinks
the democracy of the south was never fully understood, and that the
most sure way of developing its great principles is by hanging every
northerner, whose abolition mania is fast absorbing the liberties of
the country at large.
"That's the feller!" says Mr. Grabguy, as the negro leads Nicholas
into his presence, and orders him to keep his hands down while the
gentleman looks at him. "Stubborn sticks out some, though, I
reckon," Mr. Grabguy adds, rather enthusiastically. "Absalom! Isaac!
Joe! eh? what's your name?"
"He's a trump!" interposes Graspum, rubbing his hands together, and
giving his head a significant shake.
"Nicholas, they call me, master," answers the boy, pettishly.
Mr. Grabguy takes him by the arms, feels his muscle with great care
and caution, tries the elasticity of his body by lifting him from
the floor by his two ears. This is too much, which the child
announces with loud screams. "Stuff! out and out," says Mr. Grabguy,
patting him on the back, in a kind sort of way. At the same time he
gives a look of satisfaction at Graspum.
"Everything a man wants, in that yaller skin," returns that
methodical tradesman, with a gracious nod.
"Black lightnin' eyes-long wiry black hair, a skin full of Ingin
devil, and a face full of stubborn," Mr. Grabguy discourses, as he
contemplates the article before him.
"Well, now, about the lowest figure for him?" he continues, again
looking at Graspum, and waiting his reply.
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