“The issue is painful enough, without any interposition from you, my friend,” rejoins the vender, interrupting Romescos in his conversation.  After a few minutes pause, during which time he has been watching the faces of his customers, he adds:  “Perhaps, seeing how well mated they are, gentlemen will not let them be separated.  They have been raised together.”

“Certainly!” again interrupts Romescos, “it would be a pity to separate them, ’cos it might touch somebody’s heart.”

“Ah, that comes from Romescos; we may judge of its motive as we please,” rejoins the man of feeling, taking Annette by the arm and leading her to the extreme edge of the stand.  “Make us a bid, gentlemen, for the pair.  I can see in the looks of my customers that nobody will be so hard-hearted as to separate them.  What do you offer? say it!  Start them; don’t be bashful, gentlemen!”

“Rather cool for a hard-faced nigger-seller!  Well, squire, say four hundred dollars and the treats,—­that is, sposin’ ye don’t double my bid cos I isn’t a deacon.  Wants the boy t’ make a general on when he grows up; don’t want the gal at all.  Let the deacon here (he points to the man who was seen whispering to Graspum) have her, if he wants.”  The deacon, as Romescos calls him, edges his way through the crowd up to the stand, and looks first at the vender and then at the children.  Turning his head aside, as if it may catch the ears of several bystanders, Romescos whispers, “That’s deacon Staggers, from Pineville.”

“Like your bid; but I’m frank enough to say I don’t want you to have them, Romescos,” interposes the auctioneer, with a smile.

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!” is sounded by a second bidder.  The vender enquires, “For the two?”

“Yes! the pair on ’em,” is the quick reply.

“Four hundred and fifty dollars!” re-echoes the man of feeling.  “What good democrats you are!  Why, gentlemen, it’s not half the value of them.  You must look upon this property in a social light; then you will see its immense value.  It’s intelligent, civil, and promisingly handsome; sold for no fault, and here you are hesitating on a small bid.

“Only four hundred and fifty dollars for such property, in this enlightened nineteenth century!”

“Trade will out, like murder.  Squire wouldn’t sell ’em to nobody but a deacon a few minutes ago!” is heard coming from a voice in the crowd.  The vender again pauses, blushes, and contorts his face:  he cannot suppress the zest of his profession; it is uppermost in his feelings.

Romescos says it is one of the squire’s unconscious mistakes.  There is no use of humbugging; why not let them run off to the highest bidder?

“The deacon has bid upon them; why not continue his advance?” says Mr. Seabrook, who has been smoking his cigar the while.

“Oh, well! seein’ how it’s the deacon, I won’t stand agin his bid.  It’s Deacon Staggers of Pineville; nobody doubts his generosity,” ejaculates Romescos, in a growling tone.  The bids quicken,—­soon reach six hundred dollars.