“Never at a loss, I see!” returns the other, nodding his head, pertinently:  “If I didn’t know ye, Blowers, that might go down without sticking.”

“Ye don’t tell where ye raised that critter, eh?” he interrupts, inquisitively, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder, and crooking his finger, comically.

“Raised her with shiners-lots on ’em!” he rejoins, pushing Mr. Pringle Blowers in the stomach, playfully, with his forefinger.

“Graspum! yer a wicked ’un.”

“Suit ye, kind ’a-eh, Blowers?” he rejoins, enquiringly, maintaining great gravity of manner as he watches each change of Blowers’ countenance.

Blowers laughs in reply.  His laugh has something sardonic in it, seeming more vicious as he opens his great wicked mouth, and displays an ugly row of coloured teeth.

“Sit down, Blowers, sit down!” says Graspum, motioning his hand, with a studied politeness.  The two gentlemen take seats side by side, on a wooden bench, stretched across the centre of the pen, for negroes to sit upon.  “As I live, Blowers, thar ain’t another individual like you in the county.  You can whip a file of common guardsmen, put the Mayor’s court through a course of affronts, frighten all the females out of the fashionable houses, treat a regiment of volunteers, drink a bar-room dry-”

“Compliments thick, long and strong,” interposes Blowers, winking and wiping his mouth.  “Can elect half the members of the assembly!” he concludes.

“True! nevertheless,” rejoins Graspum, “a great man cannot be flattered-compliments are his by merit!  And the city knows you’re a man of exquisite taste.”

Blowers interrupts with a loud laugh, as he suggests the propriety of seeing the “gal get round again.”

“Not so fast, Blowers; not so fast!” Graspum ejaculates, as Blowers is about to rise from his seat and follow Annette.

“Well, now!” returns Blowers, remaining seated, “Might just as well come square to the mark,—­ye want to sell me that wench?”

“Truth’s truth!” he replies.  “Blowers is the man who’s got the gold to do it.”

“Name yer price; and no rounding the corners!” exclaims Blowers, his countenance quickening with animation.  He takes Graspum by the arm with his left hand, turns him half round, and waits for a reply.

Seeing it’s Blowers, (the keen business man replies, in an off-hand manner), who’s a trump in his way, and don’t care for a few dollars, he’ll take seventeen hundred for her, tin down; not a fraction less!  He will have no bantering, inasmuch as his friends all know that he has but one price for niggers, from which it is no use to seek a discount.  Mr. Blowers, generally a good judge of such articles, would like one more view at it before fully making up his mind.  Graspum calls “Oh, boy!” and the negro making his appearance, says:  “Dat gal ’um all right agin; went mos asleep, but am right as parched pen now.”