“Wouldn’t lower a fraction!  He’s extraordinary prime, and’ll increase fifty dollars a year every year for ten years or more.”

Mr. Grabguy can’t help that:  he is merely in search of an article capable of being turned into a mechanic, or professional man,—­anything to suit the exigencies of a free country, in which such things are sold.  And as it will require much time to get the article to a point where it’ll be sure to turn the pennies back, perhaps he’d as well let it alone:  so he turns the matter over in his head.  And yet, there is a certain something about the “young imp” that really fascinates him; his keen eye, and deep sense of nigger natur’ value, detect the wonderful promise the article holds forth.

“Not one cent lower would I take for that chap.  In fact, I almost feel like recanting now,” says Graspum, by way of breaking the monotony.

“Well, I’ll bid you good day,” says the other, in return, affecting preparation to leave.  He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.

“Fact!  Don’t care ’bout selling at that.  Couldn’t have a better investment than to keep him!”

Mr. Grabguy considers and reconsiders the matter over in his mind; paces up and down the floor several times, commences humming a tune, steps to the door, looks up and down the street, and says, “Well, I’ll be moving homeward, I will.”

“Like yer custom, that I do; but then, knowing what I can do with the fellow, I feels stiff about letting him go,” interposes Graspum, with great indifference, following to the door, with hands extended.

This is rather too insinuating for Mr. Grabguy.  Never did piece of property loom up so brightly, so physically and intellectually valuable.  He will return to the table.  Taking his seat again, he draws forth a piece of paper, and with his pencil commences figuring upon it.  He wants to get at the cost of free and slave labour, and the relative advantages of the one over the other.  After a deal of multiplying and subtracting, he gives it up in despair.  The fine proportions of the youth before him distract his very brain with contemplation.  He won’t bother another minute; figures are only confusions:  so far as using them to compute the relative value of free and slave labour, they are enough to make one’s head ache.  “Would ye like to go with me, boy?  Give ye enough to eat, but make ye toe the mark!” He looks at Nicholas, and waits a reply.

“Don’t matter!” is the boy’s answer.  “Seems as if nobody cared for me; and so I don’t care for nobody.”

“That’s enough,” he interrupts, turning to Graspum:  “there’s a showing of grit in that, eh?”

“Soon take it out,” rejoins that methodical gentleman.  “Anyhow, I’ve a mind to try the fellow, Graspum.  I feel the risk I run; but I don’t mind-it’s neck or nothin here in the south!  Ye’ll take a long note, s’pose?  Good, ye know!”