The Reverend Quattles bowed, and, with fishy eyes and a maudlin smile, put his hand on his heart.
“The little nig I’ve brung yer ter sell, Mr. Ripper, b’longs ter the Reverend Quattles’s brother, a high-tone gemmleman, who lives in Mobile, but has been unfortnit in business, and has had ter sell off his niggers. An’ as I was goin’ ter Noo Orleenz, he puts this little colored gal in my hands ter sell. The Reverend Quattles wanted ter buy her, but was too poor. He then said he’d go with me ter see she mowt fall inter the right hahnds. In puttin’ her up, yer must say ’t was a great ’fliction, and all that, ter part with her; that the Reverend Quattles, ruther nor see her fall inter the wrong hands, would sell his library, and so on; that she’s the child of a quadroon as has been in the family all her life, and as is a sort of half-sister of the Reverend Quattles.”
“O yes! I understand all that game,” said Ripper, knocking with his little finger the ashes from his cigar.
The Colonel, in an aside to the auctioneer, now remarked: “The Reverend Quattles, in tryin’ to stiddy his narves for the scene, has tuk too stiff a horn, yer see.”
“Yes; take him where he can sleep it off. It’s time for the sale to begin. Remember your lot is Number 12, and will be struck off last.”
The auctioneer then made his way across the street, jumped on one of the cotton-bales, and thence into the chair placed near the table.
“Come, Quattles,” said Hyde, “we’ve time for another horn afore we’re wanted.”
“No yer don’t, Kunnle!” exclaimed Quattles, throwing off that worthy’s arm from his shoulder. “I tell yer this is too cussed mean a business for any white man; I tell yer I won’t give inter it.”
“Hush! Don’t bawl so,” pleaded the Colonel.
“I will bawl. Yer think yer’ve got me so drunk I hain’t no conscience left. But I tell yer, I woan’t give in. I tell yer, I’ll ’xpose the hull trick!”