“You may, Mr. Romescos, suspend your remarks,” says the vender, looking indignant, as he thrusts his right hand into his bosom, and attempts a word of introduction.

Romescos must have his last word; he never says die while he has a word at hand.  “The major’s love must be credited, gentlemen; he’s a modest auctioneer,—­a gentleman what don’t feel just right when white property’s for sale,” he whispers, sarcastically.

Another pause, then a hearty laughing, and the man commences to sell his people.  He has uttered but a few words, when Marston’s attorney, stepping into the centre of the ring, and near the vender, draws a paper from his pocket, and commences reading in a loud tone.  It is a copy of the notice he had previously served on the sheriff, setting forth in legal phraseology the freedom of the children, “And therfo’h this is t’ stay proceedings until further orders from the honourable Court of Common Pleas,” is audible at the conclusion.  The company are not much surprised.  There is not much to be surprised at, when slave law and common law come in contact.  With Marston’s sudden decline and unfathomable connection with Graspum, there is nothing left to make the reading of the notice interesting.

“You hear this, gentlemen?” says the vender, biting his lips:  “the sale of this very interesting portion of this very interesting property is objected to by the attorney for the defendant at law.  They must, therefore, be remanded to the custody of the sheriff, to await the decision of court.”  That court of strange judgments!  The sheriff, that wonderful medium of slaveocratic power, comes forward, muttering a word of consolation; he will take them away.  He passes them over to an attendant, who conducts them to their dark chilly cells.

“All right!” says Graspum, moving aside to let the children pass out.  “No more than might have been expected; it’s no use, though.  Marston will settle that little affair in a very quiet way.”  He gives the man-vender a look of approval; the very celebrated Mr. Graspum has self-confidence enough for “six folks what don’t deal in niggers.”  A bystander touching him on the arm, he gives his head a cunning shake, crooks his finger on his red nose.  “Just a thing of that kind,” he whispers, making some very delicate legal gesticulations with the fore-finger of his right hand in the palm of his left; then, with great gravity, he discusses some very nice points of nigger law.  He is heard to say it will only be a waste of time, and make some profitable rascality for the lawyers.  He could have settled the whole on’t in seven minutes.  “Better give them up honourably, and let them be sold with the rest.  Property’s property all over the world; and we must abide by the laws, or what’s the good of the constitution?  To feel bad about one’s own folly!  The idea of taking advantage of it at this late hour won’t hold good in law.  How contemptibly silly! men feeling fatherly after they have made property of their own children!  Poor, conscientious fools, how they whine at times, never thinking how they would let their womanish feelings cheat their creditors.  There’s no honour in that.”