Yes, Hugh did know Harney as one who was constantly adding to his already large possessions houses and lands and negroes without limit, caring little that they came to him laden with the widow’s curse and the orphan’s tears.  This was Harney, and Hugh always felt exasperated whenever he thought of him.  Advancing a step or two he came nearer to the negro, who took comfort at once from the expression of his face, and stretching out his shaking hand he said, beseechingly: 

“You, mas’r, you buy old Sam, ’case it ’ill be lonesome and cold in de cabin at home when they all is gone.  Please, mas’r.”

“What can you do?” was Hugh’s query, to which the truthful negro answered: 

“Nothin’ much, ‘cept to set in the chimbly corner eatin’ corn bread and bacon—­or, yes,” and an expression of reverence and awe stole over the wrinkled face, as in a low tone he added, “I can pray for young mas’r, and I will, only buy me, please.”

Hugh had not much faith in praying negroes, but something in old Sam struck him as sincere.  His prayers might do good, and be needed somebody’s, sadly.  But what should he offer, when fifteen dollars was all he had in the world, and was it his duty to encumber himself with a piece of useless property?  Visions of the Golden Haired and Adah both arose up before him.  They would say it was right.  They would tell him to buy old Sam, and that settled the point with him.

“Five dollars,” he called out, and Sam’s “God bless you,” was sounding in his ears, when a voice from another part of the building doubled the bid, and with a moan Uncle Sam turned imploringly toward Hugh.

“A leetle more, mas’r, an’ you fotches ’em; a leetle more,” he whispered, coaxingly, and Hugh faltered out “Twelve.”

“Thirteen,” came again from the corner, and Hugh caught sight of the bidder, a sour-grained fellow, whose wife had ten young children, and so could find use for Sam.

“Thirteen and a half,” cried Hugh.

“Fourteen,” responded his opponent.

“Leetle more, mas’r, berry leetle,” whispered Uncle Sam.

“Fourteen and a quarter,” said Hugh, the perspiration starting out about his lips, as he thought how fast his pile was diminishing, and that he could not go beyond it.

“Fourteen and a half,” from the corner.

“Leetle more, mas’r,” from Uncle Sam.

“Fourteen, seventy-five,” from Hugh.

“Fifteen,” from the man in the corner, and Hugh groaned aloud.

“That’s every dime I’ve got.”

Quick as thought an acquaintance beside him slipped a bill into his hand, whispering as he did so: 

“It’s a V. I’ll double it if necessary.  I’m sorry for the darky.”

It was very exciting now, each bidder raising a quarter each time, while Sam’s “a leetle more, mas’r,” and the vociferous cheers of the crowd, whenever Hugh’s voice was heard, showed him to be the popular party.