"Nobody's nigger, and without a pass!" he
grumbles out, still motioning his baton.
"He says his master is in gaol; that's enough! Stop, now, no more
such nonsense!" rejoins the other, as the old man is about to
explain. "Not another word." He is good prey, made and provided by
the sovereign law of the state. Placing him between their horses,
they conduct him in silence forward to the guard-house. He is a
harmless captive, in a world where democracy with babbling tongue
boasts of equal justice. "A prowler!" exclaims one of the guards-
men, as, dismounting in front of the massive building, with frowning
facade of stone, they disappear, leading the old man within its
great doors, as the glaring gas-light reflects upon his withered
features.
"Found prowling on the neck, sir!" says the right-hand guardsman,
addressing himself to the captain, a portly-looking man in a
military suit, who, with affected importance, casts a look of
suspicion at the old man. "Have seen you before, I think?" he
enquires.
"Reckon so, mas'r; but neber in dis place," replies Bob, in
half-subdued accents.
You are nobody's nigger, give a false account of yourself, and have
no home, I hear," interrupts the captain, at the same time ordering
a clerkly-looking individual who sits at a desk near an iron railing
enclosing a tribune, to make the entry in his book.
"Your name?" demands the clerk.
"Bob!"
"Without owner, or home?"
"My master's cell was my home."
"That won't do, my man!" interrupts the portly-looking captain.
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