It was his custom to offer a cigar to the Judge, who invariably refused, and rubbed his nose with scornful violence.

Virginia, on the verge of leaving, stayed on, fascinated by the turn the argument had taken.

“Your prejudice is hide-bound, sir,” said Mr. Whipple.

“No, Whipple,” said the Colonel, “when God washed off this wicked earth, and started new, He saw fit to put the sons of Ham in subjection.  They’re slaves of each other in Africa, and I reckon they’re treated no better than they are here.  Abuses can’t be helped in any system, sir, though we are bettering them.  Were the poor in London in the days of the Edwards as well off as our niggers are to-day?”

The Judge snorted.

“A divine institution!” he shouted.  “A black curse!  Because the world has been a wicked place of oppression since Noah’s day, is that any reason why it should so continue until the day of Judgment?”

The Colonel smiled, which was a sign that he was pleased with his argument.

“Now, see here, Whipple,” said he.  “If we had any guarantee that you would let us alone where we are, to manage our slaves and to cultivate our plantations, there wouldn’t be any trouble.  But the country keeps on growing and growing, and you’re not content with half.  You want everything,—­all the new states must abolish slavery.  And after a while you will overwhelm us, and ruin us, and make us paupers.  Do you wonder that we contend for our rights, tooth and nail?  They are our rights.”

“If it had not been for Virginia and Maryland and the South, this nation would not be in existence.”

The Colonel laughed.

“First rate, Jinny,” he cried.  “That’s so.”

But the Judge was in a revery.  He probably had not heard her.

“The nation is going to the dogs,” he said, mumbling rather to himself than to the others.  “We shall never prosper until the curse is shaken off, or wiped out in blood.  It clogs our progress.  Our merchant marine, of which we were so proud, has been annihilated by these continued disturbances.  But, sir,” he cried, hammering his fist upon the table until the glasses rang, “the party that is to save us was born at Pittsburgh last year on Washington’s birthday.  The Republican Party, sir.”

“Shucks!” exclaimed Mr. Carvel, with amusement, “The Black Republican Party, made up of old fools and young Anarchists, of Dutchmen and nigger-worshippers.  Why, Whipple, that party’s a joke.  Where’s your leader?”

“In Illinois,” was the quick response.

“What’s his name?”

“Abraham Lincoln, sir,” thundered Mr. Whipple.  “And to my way of thinking he has uttered a more significant phrase on the situation than any of your Washington statesmen.  ‘This government,’ said he to a friend of mine, ‘cannot exist half slave and half free.’”

So impressively did Mr. Whipple pronounce these words that Mr. Carvel stirred uneasily, and in spite of himself, as though he were listening to an oracle.  He recovered instantly.