“No business o’ yourn, that ain’t; yer nigger-knowin ought to tell you how ye’d got into safe hands.  We’ll push along down south as soon as ye gets some feed.  Put on a straight face, and face the music like a clever deacon, and we’ll do the square in selling ye to a Boss what ’ll let ye preach now and then. (Nimrod becomes very affectionate).  Do the thing up righteous, and when yer sold there ’ll be a five-dollar shiner for yerself. (He pats him on the head, and puts his arm over his shoulder.) Best t’ have a little shot in a body’s own pocket; now, shut up yer black bread-trap, and don’t go makin a fuss about where yer goin’ to:  that’s my business!”

Harry pauses as if in contemplation; he is struggling against his indignation excited by such remarks.  He knew his old master’s weaknesses, enjoyed his indulgences; but he had never been made to feel so acutely how degraded he could be as a mere article of trade.  It would have been some consolation to know which way he was proceeding, and why he had been so suddenly snatched from his new owner.  Fate had not ordained this for him; oh no!  He must resign himself without making any further enquiries; he must be nothing more than a nigger—­happy nigger happily subdued!  Seating himself upon the floor, in a recumbent position, he drops his face on his knees,—­is humbled among the humblest.  He is left alone for some time, while his captors, retiring into an adjoining room, hold a consultation.

Breakfast is being prepared, and much conversation is kept up in an inaudible tone of voice.  Harry has an instinctive knowledge that it is about him, for he hears the words, “Peter!  Peter!” his name must be transmogrified into “Peter!” In another minute he hears dishes rattling on the table, and Bengal distinctly complimenting the adjuncts, as he orders some for the nigger preacher.  This excites his anxiety; he feels like placing his ear at the keyhole,—­doing a little evesdropping.  He is happily disappointed, however, for the door opens, and a black boy bearing a dish of homony enters, and, placing it before him, begs that he will help himself.  Harry takes the plate and sets it beside him, as the strange boy watches him with an air of commiseration that enlists his confidence.  “Ain’t da’h somefin mo’ dat I can bring ye?” enquires the boy, pausing for an answer.

“Nothing,—­nothing more!”

Harry will venture to make some enquiries about the locality.  “Do you belong to master what live here?” He puts out his hand, takes the other by the arm.

“Hard tellin who I belongs to.  Buckra man own ’em to-day; ain’t sartin if he own ’em to-morrow, dough.  What country-born nigger is you?”

“Down country!  My poor old master’s gone, and now I’m goin’; but God only knows where to.  White man sell all old Boss’s folks in a string,—­my old woman and children among the rest.  My heart is with them, God bless them!”

“Reckon how ya’ had a right good old Boss what larn ye somethin.”  The boy listens to Harry with surprise.  “Don’t talk like dat down dis a way; no country-born nigger put in larn’d wods so, nohow,” returns the boy, with a look of curious admiration.