“Now, stare! stare! with all yer fire-stained eyes, ye clan of motley vagrants-ye sovereign citizens of a sovereign state.  Two hundred dollars! aye, two hundred dollars for ye.  Make plenty o’ work for yer dogs; knowin brutes they are.  And ye’ll get whiskey enough to last the whole district more nor a year,” says our worthy Jones, standing before them, and pointing his finger at the notice.  They, as if doubting their own perceptibilities, draw nearer and nearer, straining their eyes, while their bodies oscillate against each other.

Mine host tells them to consider the matter, and be prepared for action, while he will proceed to M’Fadden’s chamber and learn the state of his health.

He opens the sick man’s chamber, and there, to his surprise, is the invalid gentleman, deliberately taking his tea and toast.  Mine host congratulates him upon his appearance, extends his hand, takes a seat by his bed-side.  “I had fearful apprehensions about you, my friend,” he says.

“So had I about myself.  I thought I was going to slip it in right earnest.  My thoughts and feelins-how they wandered!” M’Fadden raises his hand to his forehead, and slowly shakes his head.  “I would’nt a’ given much for the chances, at one time; but the wound isn’t so bad, after all.  My nigger property gets along all straight, I suppose?” he enquires, coolly, rolling his eyes upwards with a look of serious reflection.  “Boy preacher never returned last night.  It’s all right, though, I suppose?” again he enquired, looking mine host right in the eye, as if he discovered some misgiving.  His seriousness soon begins to give place to anxiety.

“That boy was a bad nigger,” says mine host, in a half-whisper; “but you must not let your property worry you, my friend.”

“Bad nigger!” interrupts the invalid.  Mine host pauses for a moment, while M’Fadden sets his eyes upon him with a piercing stare.

“Not been cutting up nigger tricks?” he ejaculates, enquiringly, about to spring from his couch with his usual nimbleness.  Mine host places his left hand upon his shoulder, and assures him there is no cause of alarm.

“Tell me if any thing’s wrong about my property.  Now do,—­be candid:”  his eyes roll, anxiously.

“All right-except the preacher; he’s run away,” mine host answers, suggesting how much better it will be to take the matter cool, as he is sure to be captured.

“What! who-how? you don’t say!  My very choicest piece of property.  Well-well! who will believe in religion, after that?  He came to my sick chamber, the black vagabond did, and prayed as piously as a white man.  And it went right to my heart; and I felt that if I died it would a’ been the means o’ savin my soul from all sorts of things infernal,” says the recovering M’Fadden.  He, the black preacher, is only a nigger after all; and his owner will have him back, or he’ll have his black hide-that he will!  The sick man makes another effort to rise, but is calmed into resignation through mine host’s further assurance that the property will be “all right” by the time he gets well.