“Give my love to Mas’r George,” he said, earnestly.

Haley whipped up the horse, and, with a steady, mournful look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away.

Mr. Shelby at this time was not at home.  He had sold Tom under the spur of a driving necessity, to get out of the power of a man whom he dreaded,—­and his first feeling, after the consummation of the bargain, had been that of relief.  But his wife’s expostulations awoke his half-slumbering regrets; and Tom’s manly disinterestedness increased the unpleasantness of his feelings.  It was in vain that he said to himself that he had a right to do it,—­that everybody did it,—­and that some did it without even the excuse of necessity;—­he could not satisfy his own feelings; and that he might not witness the unpleasant scenes of the consummation, he had gone on a short business tour up the country, hoping that all would be over before he returned.

Tom and Haley rattled on along the dusty road, whirling past every old familiar spot, until the bounds of the estate were fairly passed, and they found themselves out on the open pike.  After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith’s shop, when, taking out with him a pair of handcuffs, he stepped into the shop, to have a little alteration in them.

“These yer ’s a little too small for his build,” said Haley, showing the fetters, and pointing out to Tom.

“Lor! now, if thar an’t Shelby’s Tom.  He han’t sold him, now?” said the smith.

“Yes, he has,” said Haley.

“Now, ye don’t! well, reely,” said the smith, “who’d a thought it!  Why, ye needn’t go to fetterin’ him up this yer way.  He’s the faithfullest, best crittur—­”

“Yes, yes,” said Haley; “but your good fellers are just the critturs to want ter run off.  Them stupid ones, as doesn’t care whar they go, and shifless, drunken ones, as don’t care for nothin’, they’ll stick by, and like as not be rather pleased to be toted round; but these yer prime fellers, they hates it like sin.  No way but to fetter ’em; got legs,—­they’ll use ’em,—­no mistake.”

“Well,” said the smith, feeling among his tools, “them plantations down thar, stranger, an’t jest the place a Kentuck nigger wants to go to; they dies thar tol’able fast, don’t they?”

“Wal, yes, tol’able fast, ther dying is; what with the ’climating and one thing and another, they dies so as to keep the market up pretty brisk,” said Haley.

“Wal, now, a feller can’t help thinkin’ it’s a mighty pity to have a nice, quiet, likely feller, as good un as Tom is, go down to be fairly ground up on one of them ar sugar plantations.”

“Wal, he’s got a fa’r chance.  I promised to do well by him.  I’ll get him in house-servant in some good old family, and then, if he stands the fever and ’climating, he’ll have a berth good as any nigger ought ter ask for.”

“He leaves his wife and chil’en up here, s’pose?”