"Hold a moment!" Mr. Winterflint--such
is his name--says. Heaven knows he wants to get rid of the dead
debtor; but the laws are so curious, creditors are so obdurate, and
sheriffs have such a crooked way of doing straight things, that he
is in the very bad position of not knowing what to do. Some document
from the sheriff may be necessary; perhaps the creditors must agree
to the compromise. He forgets that inexorable Death, as he is
vulgarly styled, has forced a compromise: creditors must now credit
"by decease." Upon this point, however, he must be satisfied by his
superior. He now wishes Mr. Brien Moon would evince more exactness
in holding inquests, and less anxiety for the fees. Mr. Winterflint
depends not on his own decisions, where the laws relating to debtors
are so absurdly mystical. "Rest here, boy," he says; "I won't be a
minute or two,--must do the thing straight." He seeks the presence of
that extremely high functionary, the gaoler (high indeed wherever
slavery rules), who, having weighed the points with great legal
impartiality, gives it as his most distinguished opinion that no
order of release from the high sheriff is requisite to satisfy the
creditors of his death: take care of the order sent, and make a note
of the niggers who take him away, concludes that highly important
gentleman, as comfortably his head reclines on soft pillow. To this
end was Mr. Moon's certificate essential.
Mr. Winterflint returns; enquires who owns the boys.
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