“Yes, sar, so I did,” said the black man, looking under the table. “Eh!—it’s that damned little nigger—two year old Sambo—no possible keep him in, sar.—Come out, Sambo.”
The child crawled out to his master, and climbed up by his knee: the old planter patted his woolly head, and gave him a piece of grilled turkey, with which he immediately dived again under the table.
“The fact is, captain, they are accustomed to come in at breakfast time; they are only shut out to-day because I have company. That door behind me leads into the nursery yard.”
“The nursery yard!”
“Yes, I’ll show it you by-and-bye; there’s plenty of them there.”
“Oh, pray let us have them in—I wish to see them, and should be sorry to be the cause of their being disappointed.”
“Open the door, Boy Jack.” As soon as it was open, about twenty black children from seven to three years old, most of them naked, with their ivory skins like a polished table, and quite pot-bellied from good living, tumbled into the room, to the great amusement of Newton and the party. They were followed by seven or eight more, who were not yet old enough to walk; but they crawled upon all-fours almost as fast as the others, who could walk erect after the image of their Maker.
The company amused themselves with distributing to the children the contents of the dishes on the table—the elder ones nestling alongside of the planter and his friends with the greatest familiarity, while the youngest sat upright on the floor, laughing as they devoured their respective portions.
“Of course, these are all slaves?” observed Mr Berecroft.
“Yes, bred them all myself,” replied the planter “indeed, out of two hundred and fifteen which I have on the estate, I think that there are not more than twelve who were not born on this property, during my father’s time or mine. Perhaps, as breakfast is over, you will like to inspect my nursery.”