of all he can do, will trouble it once in a while.  Marston-poor Marston!-he declares to be foolishly troubled with it, and it makes him commit grievous errors.  And then, there’s no understandin’ it, because Marston has a funny way of keeping it under such a knotty-looking exterior.  Graspum declares he had nothing to do with the breaking out of the cholera, is very sorry for it,—­only wants his own, just like any other honest man.  He kind o’ likes Marston, admits he is a sort of good fellow in his way; mighty careless though, wouldn’t cheat anybody if he knew it, and never gave half a minute’s thinking about how uncertain the world was.  But the cholera-a dire disease among niggers-has broke out in all the fury of its ravages; and it makes him think of his sick niggers and paying his debts.  “You see, gentlemen-we are all gentlemen here,” Graspum continues,—­“a man must pay the penalty of his folly once in a while.  It’s the fate of great men as well as smaller ones; all are liable to it.  That isn’t the thing, though; it don’t do to be chicken-hearted afore niggers, nor when yer dealing in niggers, nor in any kind o’ business what ye want to make coin at.  Marston ’ll stick on that point, he will; see if he don’t.  His feelins’ are troubling him:  he knows I’ve got the assignment; and if he don’t put them ar’ white ’uns of his in the schedule, I’ll snap him up for fraud,—­I will-”

The conversation is here interrupted by a loud rap at the door, which is opened by the negro, who stands with his finger on the latch.  Romescos, in his slovenly garb, presents himself with an air of self-assurance that marks the result of his enterprise.  He is a prominent feature in all Graspum’s great operations; he is desperate in serving his interests.  Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket-it is printed with the stars and stripes of freedom-he calls it a New England rag, disdainfully denounces that area of unbelievers in slaveocracy, wipes his blistered face with it, advances to the table-every eye intently watching him-and pauses for breath.

“What success, Anthony?  Tell us quickly,” Graspum demands, extending his hand nervously.  “Anthony never fails!  It’s a fool who fails in our business,” was the reply, delivered with great unconcern, and responded to with unanimous applause.  A warrior returned from victory was Anthony,—­a victory of villainy recorded in heaven, where the rewards will, at some day, be measured out with a just but awful retribution.

The bosom of his shirt lays broadly open:  one by one they shake his hand, as he hastily unties the chequered cloth about his neck, pours out his drink of whiskey, seats himself in a chair, and deliberately places his feet upon the table.  “Ther’s nothin’ like making a triangle of oneself when ye wants to feel so ye can blow comfortable,” he says.  “I done nothin’ shorter than put all straight at Marston’s last night.  It was science, ye see, gents; and I done it up strictly