"He wasn't your master-Was he?" enquires the gaoler, in gruff
accents.
"Once he was."
"But, did you see him die, boy?"
"Thank God, I did not."
"And this stupid old nigger hadn't sense to call me!" (he turns
threateningly to Bob): "Well,--must 'a drop'd off like the snuff of
a tallow candle!"
Daddy knew master was a poor man now;--calling would have availed
nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.
"Could you not have sent for me, good man?" enquires Franconia, her
weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering
her question, "We must have him out o' here."
"I said mas'r was sicker den ye s'posed, yesterday; nor ye didn't
notice 'um!" interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the
warden, and again at Franconia.
"What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality! He died
neglected in a prison cell!"
"Truth is, ma'am," interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming
conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they
may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,--"we are sorely
tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and
they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the
rot. It gives us a great deal of trouble;--you may depend it does,
ma'am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it. For my own part,
I've become quite at home to dead men and prisoners. My name is-you
have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen: my
situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor;
and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district,
and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am
now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners.
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