Graspum motions his head and works his lips, half affirmatively.

“Good as old gold, ye knows that,” insinuates Mr. Grabguy.

“Yes, but notes aint cash; and our banks are shut down as tight as steel traps.  At all events make it bankable, and add the interest for six months.  It’s against my rules of business, though,” returns Graspum, with great financial emphasis.

After considerably more very nice exhibitions of business tact, it is agreed that Mr. Grabguy takes the “imp” at five hundred and twenty dollars, for which Graspum accepts his note at six months, with interest.  Mr. Grabguy’s paper is good, and Graspum considers it equal to cash, less the interest.  The “imp” is now left in charge of the negro, while the two gentlemen retire to the private counting-room, where they will settle the preliminaries.

A grave-looking gentleman at a large desk is ordered to make the entry of sale; as the initiate of which he takes a ponderous ledger from the case, and, with great coolness, opens its large leaves.  “Nicholas, I think his name is?” he ejaculates, turning to Graspum, who, unconcernedly, has resumed his seat in the great arm-chair.

“Yes; but I suppose it must be Nicholas Grabguy, now,” returns Graspum, bowing to his book-keeper, and then turning to Mr. Grabguy.

“One minute, if you please!” rejoins that gentlemen, as the sedate book-keeper turns to his page of N’s in the index.  Mr. Grabguy will consider that very important point for a few seconds.

“Better drop the Marston, as things are.  A good many high feeling connections of that family remain; and to continue the name might be to give pain.”  This, Graspum says, he only puts out as a suggestion.

“Enter him as you say, gentlemen,” interposes the clerk, who will mend his pen while waiting their pleasure.

Mr. Grabguy runs his right hand several times across his forehead, and after a breathless pause, thinks it as well not to connect his distinguished name with that of the nigger,—­not just at this moment!  Being his property, and associating with his business and people, that will naturally follow.  “Just enter him, and make out the bill of sale describing him as the boy Nicholas,” he adds.

“Boy Nicholas!” reiterates the book-keeper, and straight-way enters his name, amount fetched, to whom sold, and general description, on his files.  In a few minutes more-Graspum, in his chair of state, is regretting having sold so quick,—­Mr. Grabguy is handed his bill of sale, duly made out.  At the same time, that sedate official places the note for the amount into Graspum’s hands.  Graspum examines it minutely, while Mr. Grabguy surveys the bill of sale.  “Mr. Benson, my clerk here, does these things up according to legal tenour; he, let me inform you, was brought up at the law business, and was rather celebrated once; but the profession won’t pay a man of his ability,” remarks Graspum, with an “all right!” as he lays the note of hand down for Mr. Grabguy’s signature.