“Yes, master; I am here!” He again holds up his chained hands, drops his face upon his knees; as much as to say, be sure I am all safe and sound.

Looking at the receipt again, and then at his preacher, “Guess ‘hain’t made a bad rap on ye’ to-day!” he ejaculates, taking out his pocket-book and laying away the precious paper as carefully as if it were a hundred dollar note.  “Should like to have bought your old woman and young ’uns, but hadn’t tin enough.  And the way stock’s up now, ain’t slow!  Look up here, my old buck! just put on a face as bright and smooth as a full moon-no sulkin’.  Come along here.”

The manacled preacher turns upon his hands, gets up as best he can-M’Fadden kindly assists by taking hold of his shoulder-and follows his purchaser to the platform,—­like a submissive animal goaded to the very flesh, but chained, lest it make some show of resentment.  “Good heap o’ work in ye’, old chuck; had a master what didn’t understand bringing on’t out, though!” mutters M’Fadden, as he introduces Harry to the negro car, at the same time casting a look of satisfaction at the brakeman standing at his left hand ready to receive the freight.

In the car-a dungeon-like box about ten feet square, the only aperture for admitting light being a lattice of about eight inches square, in the door-are three rough negro men and one woman, the latter apparently about twenty years of age.

“Got a tall chap here, boys!  Make ye stand round some, in pickin’ time; and can preach, too.”  M’Fadden shakes his head exultingly!  “Can put in the big licks preachin’; and I’ze goin’ t’ let ’im, once in a while.  Goin’ t’ have good times on my place, boys—­ha’h!  Got a jug of whiskey to have a fandango when ye gits home.  Got it somewhere, I knows.”  Mr. M’Fadden exults over the happy times his boys have at home.  He shakes himself all over, like a polar bear just out of the water, and laughs heartily.  He has delivered himself of something that makes everybody else laugh; the mania has caught upon his own subtle self.  The negroes laugh in expressive cadences, and shrug their shoulders as Mr. M’Fadden continues to address them so sportively, so familiarly.  Less initiated persons might have formed very satisfactory opinions of his character.  He takes a peep under one of the seats, and with a rhapsody of laughter draws forth a small jug.  “You can’t come the smuggle over me, boys!  I knew ye had a shot somewhere,” he exclaims.  At his bidding, the woman hands him a gourd, from which he very deliberately helps himself to a stout draught.

“Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr. M’Fadden addresses himself to his preacher.  Ye’ll get yer share on’t when ye gits to my place.”  He sets the jug down, and passes the gourd back, saying:  “What a saucy hussy ye are!” slapping the woman’s black shoulder playfully.  “Give him some-won’t ye’, boys?” he concludes.