“That’s the feller!” says Mr. Grabguy, as the negro leads Nicholas into his presence, and orders him to keep his hands down while the gentleman looks at him.  “Stubborn sticks out some, though, I reckon,” Mr. Grabguy adds, rather enthusiastically.  “Absalom!  Isaac!  Joe! eh? what’s your name?”

“He’s a trump!” interposes Graspum, rubbing his hands together, and giving his head a significant shake.

“Nicholas, they call me, master,” answers the boy, pettishly.

Mr. Grabguy takes him by the arms, feels his muscle with great care and caution, tries the elasticity of his body by lifting him from the floor by his two ears.  This is too much, which the child announces with loud screams.  “Stuff! out and out,” says Mr. Grabguy, patting him on the back, in a kind sort of way.  At the same time he gives a look of satisfaction at Graspum.

“Everything a man wants, in that yaller skin,” returns that methodical tradesman, with a gracious nod.

“Black lightnin’ eyes-long wiry black hair, a skin full of Ingin devil, and a face full of stubborn,” Mr. Grabguy discourses, as he contemplates the article before him.

“Well, now, about the lowest figure for him?” he continues, again looking at Graspum, and waiting his reply.  That gentleman, drawing his right hand across his mouth, relieves it of the virtueless deposit, and supplies it with a fresh quid.

“Sit down, neighbour Grabguy,” he says, placing a chair beside him.  They both sit down; the negro attendant stands a few feet behind them:  the boy may walk a line backward and forward.  “Say the word!  You know I’ll have a deal o’ trouble afore breaking the feller in,” Grabguy exclaims, impatiently.

Graspum is invoking his philosophy.  He will gauge the point of value according to the coming prospect and Mr. Grabguy’s wants.  “Well, now, seeing it’s you, and taking the large amount of negro property I have sold to your distinguished father into consideration-I hope to sell forty thousand niggers yet, before I die-he should bring six hundred.”  Graspum lays his left hand modestly on Mr. Grabguy’s right arm, as that gentleman rather starts with surprise.  “Take the extraordinary qualities into consideration, my friend; he’s got a head what’s worth two hundred dollars more nor a common nigger,—­that is, if you be going to turn it into knowledge profit.  But that wasn’t just what I was going to say” (Graspum becomes profound, as he spreads himself back in his chair).  “I was going to say, I’d let you-you mustn’t whisper it, though-have him for five hundred and twenty; and he’s as cheap at that as bull-dogs at five dollars.”

Grabguy shakes his head:  he thinks the price rather beyond his mark.  He, however, has no objection to chalking on the figure; and as both are good democrats, they will split the difference.

Graspum, smiling, touches his customer significantly with his elbow.  “I never do business after that model,” he says.  “Speaking of bull-dogs, why, Lord bless your soul, Sam Beals and me traded t’other day:  I gin him a young five-year old nigger for his hound, and two hundred dollars to boot.  Can’t go five hundred and twenty for that imp, nohow!  Could o’ got a prime nigger for that, two years ago.”