Mr. M’Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dep“t is thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting, as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step out and take the comfort of his cigar.  He pats his preacher on the shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells the boys to keep an eye on him.  “Yes, mas’r,” they answer, in tones of happy ignorance.  The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright face, never mind the old gal and her young ’uns, and remember what a chance he will have to get another.  He can have two or more, if he pleases; so says his very generous owner.

Mr. M’Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is.  Presently the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of passengers rush for the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger’s slightest touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living merchandise.

M’Fadden again finds his way to the negroes’ car, where, sitting down in front of his property, he will take a bird’s-eye view of it.  It is very fascinating to a man who loves the quality of such articles as preachers.  He will draw his seat somewhat closer to the minister; his heart bounds with joy at the prime appearance of his purchase.  Reaching out his hand, he takes the cap from Harry’s head, throws it into the woman’s lap; again rubs his hair into a friz.  Thus relieved of his pleasing emotions, he will pass into one of the fashionable cars, and take his place among the aristocrats.

“Boss mighty funny when ‘e come t’ town, and git just so ’e don’t see straight:  wish ’e so good wen ’e out da’h on de plantation yander,” ejaculates one of the negroes, who answers to the name-Joe!  Joe seems to have charge of the rest; but he watches M’Fadden’s departure with a look of sullen hatred.

“Hard old Boss on time-an’t he, boys?” enquires Harry, as an introduction to the conversation.

“Won’t take ye long t’ find ’um out, I reckon!  Git nigger on de plantation ‘e don’t spa’ him, nohow,” rejoins another.

“Lor’, man, if ye ain’t tough ye’ll git used up in no time, wid him!” the woman speaks up, sharply.  Then, pulling her ragged skirts around her, she casts a sympathising look at Harry, and, raising her hand in a threatening attitude, and shaking it spitefully in the direction M’Fadden has gone, says:—­“If only had dat man, old Boss, where ’um could revenge ‘um, how a’ would make ‘um suffer!  He don’ treat ’e nigger like ’e do ’e dog.  If ’twarn’t fo’h Buckra I’d cut ’e troat, sartin.”  This ominous expression, delivered with such emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master very unlike the kind and careless Marston.