“There! now’s a chance of some enterprise and some sense.  There’s a deuced nice sum to be made at that!” says Mr. Jones, emphatically, as he stands a few steps back, and reads aloud the following sublime outline of his genius:—­

“Great inducement for sportsmen.  Two Hundred Dollars Reward.

“The above reward will be given anybody for the apprehension of the nigger-boy, Harry, the property of Mr. M’Fadden.  Said Harry suddenly disappeared from these premises last night, while his master was supposed to be dying.  The boy’s a well-developed nigger, ’ant sassy, got fine bold head and round face, and intelligent eye, and ’s about five feet eleven inches high, and equally proportionate elsewhere.  He’s much giv’n to preachin’, and most likely is secreted in some of the surrounding swamps, where he will remain until tempted to make his appearance on some plantation for the purpose of exortin his feller niggers.  He is well disposed, and is said to have a good disposition, so that no person need fear to approach him for capture.  The above reward will be paid upon his delivery at any gaol in the State, and a hundred and fifty dollars if delivered at any gaol out of the State.

“Jethro Jones.”

“Just the instrument to bring him, Jethro!” intimates our fashionable gent, quizzically, as he stands a few feet behind Mr. Jones, making grimaces.  Then, gazing intently at the bill for some minutes, he runs his hands deep into his pockets, affects an air of greatest satisfaction, and commences whistling a tune to aid in suppressing a smile that is invading his countenance.  “Wouldn’t be in that nigger’s skin for a thousand or more dollars, I wouldn’t!” he continues, screeching in the loudest manner, and then shaking, kicking, and rousing the half-animate occupants of the floor and benches.  “Come! get up here!  Prize money ahead!  Fine fun for a week.  Prize money ahead! wake up, ye jolly sleepers, loyal citizens, independent voters-wake up, I say.  Here’s fun and frolic, plenty of whiskey, and two hundred dollars reward for every mother’s son of ye what wants to hunt a nigger; and he’s a preachin nigger at that!  Come; whose in for the frolic, ye hard-faced democracy that love to vote for your country’s good and a good cause?” After exerting himself for some time, they begin to scramble up like so many bewildered spectres of blackness, troubled to get light through the means of their blurred faculties.

“Who’s dragging the life out o’ me?” exclaims one, straining his mottled eyes, extending his wearied limbs, gasping as if for breath; then staggering to the counter.  Finally, after much struggling, staggering, expressing consternation, obscene jeering, blasphemous oaths and filthy slang, they stand upright, and huddle around the notice.  The picture presented by their ragged garments, their woebegone faces, and their drenched faculties, would, indeed, be difficult to transfer to canvas.