“Well, donno; ‘cordin’ as their constitution is.  Stout fellers last six or seven years; trashy ones gets worked up in two or three.  I used to, when I fust begun, have considerable trouble fussin’ with ’em and trying to make ’em hold out,—­doctorin’ on ’em up when they’s sick, and givin’ on ’em clothes and blankets, and what not, tryin’ to keep ’em all sort o’ decent and comfortable.  Law, ‘t wasn’t no sort o’ use; I lost money on ’em, and ‘t was heaps o’ trouble.  Now, you see, I just put ’em straight through, sick or well.  When one nigger’s dead, I buy another; and I find it comes cheaper and easier, every way.”

The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman, who had been listening to the conversation with repressed uneasiness.

“You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of Southern planters,” said he.

“I should hope not,” said the young gentleman, with emphasis.

“He is a mean, low, brutal fellow!” said the other.

“And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human beings subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of protection; and, low as he is, you cannot say that there are not many such.”

“Well,” said the other, “there are also many considerate and humane men among planters.”

“Granted,” said the young man; “but, in my opinion, it is you considerate, humane men, that are responsible for all the brutality and outrage wrought by these wretches; because, if it were not for your sanction and influence, the whole system could not keep foothold for an hour.  If there were no planters except such as that one,” said he, pointing with his finger to Legree, who stood with his back to them, “the whole thing would go down like a millstone.  It is your respectability and humanity that licenses and protects his brutality.”

“You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature,” said the planter, smiling, “but I advise you not to talk quite so loud, as there are people on board the boat who might not be quite so tolerant to opinion as I am.  You had better wait till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse us all, quite at your leisure.”

The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were soon busy in a game of backgammon.  Meanwhile, another conversation was going on in the lower part of the boat, between Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom she was confined.  As was natural, they were exchanging with each other some particulars of their history.

“Who did you belong to?” said Emmeline.

“Well, my Mas’r was Mr. Ellis,—­lived on Levee-street.  P’raps you’ve seen the house.”

“Was he good to you?” said Emmeline.

“Mostly, till he tuk sick.  He’s lain sick, off and on, more than six months, and been orful oneasy.  ‘Pears like he warnt willin’ to have nobody rest, day or night; and got so curous, there couldn’t nobody suit him.  ’Pears like he just grew crosser, every day; kep me up nights till I got farly beat out, and couldn’t keep awake no longer; and cause I got to sleep, one night, Lors, he talk so orful to me, and he tell me he’d sell me to just the hardest master he could find; and he’d promised me my freedom, too, when he died.”