“Hush! hush!” said the Colonel, patting him as he might a restive beast. “Arter the sale’s over, we’ll have a fust-rate dinner all by ou’selves at the St. Charles. Terrapin soup and pompinoe! Champagne and juleps! Ice-cream and jelly! A reg’lar blow-out! Think of that, Quattles! Think of that!”
“Cuss the vittles! O, I’m a poor, mis’able, used-up, good-for-northin’ creetur, wuss nor a nigger!—yes, wuss nor a nigger!” said Quattles, bursting into maudlin sobs and weeping. The Colonel walked him away into a contiguous drinking-saloon.
“Brandy-smashes for two,” said the Colonel.
The decoctions were brewed, and the tumblers slid along the marble counter, with the despatch of a man who takes pride in his vocation. They were as quickly emptied. Quattles gulped down his liquor eagerly. The Colonel then hired a room containing a sofa, and, seeing his companion safely bestowed there, made his own way back to the auction.
On one of the cotton-bales stood a prime article called a negro-wench. This was Lot Number 3. She was clad in an old faded and filthy calico dress that had apparently been made for a girl half her size. A small bundle containing the rest of her wardrobe lay at her feet. Her bare arms, neck, and breasts were conspicuously displayed, and her knees were hardly covered by the stinted skirt. Without shame she stood there, as if used to the scene, and rather flattered by the glib commendations of the auctioneer.
“Look at her, gentlemen!” said he. “All her pints good. Fust-rate stock to breed from. Only twenty-three years old, and has had five children already. And thar’s no reason why she shouldn’t have a dozen more. I’m only bid eight hunderd dollars for this most valubble brood-wench. Only eight hunderd dollars for this superior article. Thank you, sir; you’ve an eye for good pints. I’m offered eight hunderd and twenty-five. Only eight hunderd and twenty-five for this most useful hand. Jest look at her, sir. Limbs straight; teeth all sound; wool thick, though she has had five children. All livin’, too; ain’t they, Portia?”
“Yes, massa, all sole ter Massa Wade down thar in Texas. He’m gwoin’ ter raise de hull lot.”
“You hear, gentlemen. Thar’s nothin’ vicious about her. Makes no fuss because her young ones are carried off. Knows they’ll be taken good care of. A good, reasonable, pleasant-tempered wench as ever lived. And now I’m offered only eight hunderd and—Did I hear fifty? Thank you, sir. Eight hunderd and fifty dollars is bid. Is thar nary a man har that knows the valoo of a prime article like this? Eight hunderd and fifty dollars. Goin’ for eight hunderd and fifty! Goin’! Gone! For eight hunderd and fifty dollars. Gentlemen, you must be calculating on the opening of the slave-trade, if you’ll stand by and see niggers sacrificed in this way. Pass up the next lot.”
The next “lot” was a man, a sulky, discontented-looking creature, but large, erect, and with shoulders that would have made his fortune as a hotel-porter. Laying down his bundle, he mounted the cotton-bale with a weary, desponding air, as if he had begun to think there was no good in reserve for him, either on the earth or in the heavens.
“Lot Number 4 is Ike,” said the auctioneer. “A fust-rate field-hand. Will hoe more cotton in three hours than a common nigger will in ten. Ike is pious, and has been a famous exhorter among the niggers; belongs to the Baptist church. You all know, gentlemen, the advantage of piety in a nigger. Ike’s piety ought to add thirty per cent to his wuth. I’m offered nine hunderd dollars for Ike. Nine hunderd dollars!”