The hammer fell with a sharp, decisive sound.
A fearful volley of oaths rattled after the noise, like thunder rolling away in the distance.
Moore’s brother had returned from achieving a “short drink” just in time to see his coveted lot knocked down to his rival.
We left the spot, with the negro in the care of Peter, as quickly as might be.
“I wonder,” said Moore, as we reached the inn and ordered a trap to carry our valuable bargain home in—“I wonder what on earth made Isaacs run off like a maniac.”
“Massa,” whispered Peter, “yesterday I jes’ caught yer Brer Hornet a-loafin’ around in the wood. ‘Come wi’ me,’ says I, ‘and bottled him in this yer pasteboard box,’” showing one which had held Turkish tobacco. “When I saw that Hebrew Jew wouldn’t stir his pencil, I jes’ crept up softly and dropped Brer Hornet down his neck. Then he jes’ rose and went. Spec’s he and Brer Hornet had business of their own.”
“Peter,” said Moore, “you are a good boy, but you will come to a bad end.”
II.
As we rode slowly homeward, behind the trap which conveyed the dear-bought slave, Moore was extremely moody and disinclined for conversation.
“Is your purchase not rather an expensive one?” I ventured to ask, to which Moore replied shortly—