Soon the markets were again open, and finding that many of the American prisoners had more money than the French, discovering also that they spoke their own tongue and thereby rendered bargaining more easy, the native Moor folk crowded among them and opened a brisk traffic in fowls and eggs, cheese, bacon and butter. No small amount of intoxicating drink was also smuggled among them, though it generally paid duty to some turnkey or sentry before reaching the prisoners. The market stalls were arranged in a wide yard; the current market prices were cried out, so that all might understand, and none from the outer world were permitted to begin his business until he had been carefully searched. But as time went on, and the regular merchants became known to the guards, a little strictness relaxed and relations became friendly. The means of the prisoners varied much. Some were penniless, and made trinkets carved of bone or wood serve them in place of money; some received regular supplies from home, and these privileged ones, Cecil Stark and Burnham among the rest, shared their funds with less fortunate neighbours.
There came a day when, towards the close of the market hours, Leverett and Knapps were standing at one of the stalls and addressing the countrywoman who sat upon an upturned barrel behind it.
"Where's your grandson of late, Mrs. Lee? I ha'n't seen him with you for many a week."
"Nor won't no more," answered Lovey Lee. "He's gone into sarvice—groom to a farmer's darter."
"Waal now! Do your farmers' daughters hev grooms?"
"Not often. She's a lady. 'Tis a newtake farm 'pon Dartymoor, an' the man who started it has got more money than wits. Jack takes good wages, an' I have half of 'em, as I ought, seeing I brought him up."
Sam Cuffee came up at this minute.
"Missy Lovey Lee," he said, "you dun gib me my proper butter yesterday for Marse Stark. I swear 'twas light, ma'am."
The tall woman, whose head, though she sat on the barrel, was as high as that of Mr. Knapps where he stood beside her, stared at the negro with scorn in her ferocious eyes.
"Get along with you, you black idol! Ban't eighteen ounces to the pound good butter weight? You stole some yourself, I'll swear, to oil your ugly face."