Graspum, smiling, touches his customer significantly with his elbow.
"I never do business after that model," he says. "Speaking of
bull-dogs, why, Lord bless your soul, Sam Beals and me traded
t'other day: I gin him a young five-year old nigger for his hound,
and two hundred dollars to boot. Can't go five hundred and twenty
for that imp, nohow! Could o' got a prime nigger for that, two years
ago."
"Wouldn't lower a fraction! He's extraordinary prime, and'll
increase fifty dollars a year every year for ten years or more."
Mr. Grabguy can't help that: he is merely in search of an article
capable of being turned into a mechanic, or professional
man,--anything to suit the exigencies of a free country, in which
such things are sold. And as it will require much time to get the
article to a point where it'll be sure to turn the pennies back,
perhaps he'd as well let it alone: so he turns the matter over in
his head. And yet, there is a certain something about the "young
imp" that really fascinates him; his keen eye, and deep sense of
nigger natur' value, detect the wonderful promise the article holds
forth.
"Not one cent lower would I take for that chap. In fact, I almost
feel like recanting now," says Graspum, by way of breaking the
monotony.
"Well, I'll bid you good day," says the other, in return, affecting
preparation to leave. He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a
serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.
"Fact! Don't care 'bout selling at that.
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