“Can do that easy enough, if you only study the difference between a nigger’s hide and head.  Can put welts on pretty strong, if you understand the difference a’tween the too,” intimates our man of business, as he places his thumbs in his vest, and commences humming a tune.  Then he stops suddenly, and working his face into a very learned contortion, continues-"Ye see, Grabguy, a man has to study the human natur of a nigger just the same as he would a mule or a machine.  In truth, Grabguy, niggers are more like mules nor anything else, ’cause the brute ’ll do everything but what ye wants him to do, afore he’s subdued.  You must break them when they are young.  About ten or a dozen welts, sir, well laid on when ye first begin, and every time he don’t toe the mark, will, in the course of a year, make him as submissive as a spaniel-it will!  The virtue of submission is in the lash, it supples like seeds.”

“About the stock, Graspum:  I don’t quite agree with you about that,—­I never believed in blood, ye know.  As far as this imp goes, I have my doubts about the blood doin on him much good; seein’ how it kind o’ comes across my mind that there’s some Ingin in him.  Now, if my philosophy serves me right, Ingin blood makes slave property want to run away (the speaker spreads himself with great nonchalance), the very worst fault.”

“Poh! poh!-isn’t a bit o’ that about him.  That imp ’s from Marston’s estate, can’t scare up nothin so promisin’ in the way of likely colour,” Graspum interposes, with great assurance of manner.  “You didn’t see the gal-did you?” he concludes.

“I reckon I’ve taken a squint at both on ’em!  Pretty fine and likely.  From the same bankrupt concern, I s’pose?” Mr. Grabguy looks quite serious, and waits for a reply.

“Yes-nothing less,” Graspum replies, measuredly.  “But won’t it make your eye water, neighbour Grabguy, one of these days!  Bring a tall price among some of our young bucks, eh!” He gives neighbour Grabguy a significant touch on the arm, and that gentleman turns his head and smiles.  How quaintly modest!

“By the by, talking of Marston, what has become of him?  His affairs seem to have died out in the general levity which the number of such cases occasion.  But I tell you what it is, Graspum,” (he whispers, accompanying the word with an insinuating look), “report implicates you in that affair.”

“Me?-Me?-Me, Sir?  God bless you! why, you really startle me.  My honour is above the world’s scandal.  Ah! if you only knew what I’ve done for that man, Marston;—­that cussed nephew of his came within a feather of effecting my ruin.  And there he lies, stubborn as a door-plate, sweating out his obstinacy in gaol.  Lord bless your soul, I’m not to blame, you know!-I have done a world of things for him; but he won’t be advised.”