his willingness to permit a small number of his grunters to be captured for the benefit of his neighbour’s half-starved negroes, provided, always, they were hunted with honourable hound-dogs.  He held such animals in high esteem, while curs he looked upon with utter contempt; he likened the one to the chivalrous old rice-planter, the other to a pettifogging schoolmaster fit for nothing but to be despised and shot.  With these feelings he (Romescos) declared his intention to kill the very first negro he caught in his swamp with cur-dogs; and he kept his word.  Lying in ambush, he would await their approach, and, when most engaged in appropriating the porkers, rush from his hiding-place, shoot the dogs, and then take a turn at the more exhilarating business of shooting the negroes.  He would, with all possible calmness, command the frightened property to approach and partake of his peculiar mixture, administered from his double-barrel gun.

That the reader may better understand Romescos’ process of curing this malady of his neighbour’s negroes, we will give it as related by himself.  It is a curious mode of dispatching negro property; the reader, however, cannot fail to comprehend it.  “Plantin’ didn’t suit my notions o’ gittin’ rich, ye see, so I spec’lates in nigger property, and makes a better thing on’t.  But there’s philosophy about the thing, and a body’s got t’ know the hang on’t afore he can twist it out profitably; so I keeps a sort of a plantation just to make a swell; cos ye got to make a splash to be anybody down south.  Can’t be a gentleman, ye see, ’cept ye plants cotton and rice; and then a feller what’s got a plantation in this kind of a way can be a gentleman, and do so many other bits of trade to advantage.  The thing works like the handle of a pump; and then it makes a right good place for raising young niggers, and gettin’ old uns trimmed up.  With me, the worst thing is that old screwdriver, M’Fadden, what don’t care no more for the wear and tear of a nigger than nothin’, and drives ’em like as many steam-engines he thinks he can keep going by feeding on saw-dust.  He han’t no conception o’ nigger constitution, and is just the worst sort of a chap that ever cum south to get a fortune.  Why, look right at his niggers:  they look like crows after corn-shuckin.  Don’t give ’em no meat, and the critters must steal somethin’ t’ keep out o’ the bone-yard.  Well, I argers the case with Mack, tells him how t’ll be atween he and me on this thing, and warns him that if he don’t chunk more corn and grease into his niggers, there ’ll be a ruptous fuss.  But he don’t stand on honour, as I does, especially when his property makes a haul on my swamp of shoats.  I an’t home often; so the hogs suffer; and Mack’s niggers get the pork.  This ‘ere kind o’ business”—­Romescos maintains the serious dignity of himself the while—­“don’t go down nohow with me; so Mack and me just has a bit of a good-natured quarrel; and from that we gets at daggers’ points, and I swears how I’ll