“Where are they to go then, father?”
“In the large shed. There are plenty of bundles of corn straw, and they must make shift with that until we can build them a hut.”
“Build them a hut?” I said, in wondering tones. “Are they going to stop?”
“Stop? Where else can they go, my lad?”
“I did not think of that, father,” I said.
“No, poor fellows, when they have been sold into slavery, there is no going back. Even if we could put them ashore in Africa, it would only be for them to be slain or sold again.”
“Then—” I stopped short, afraid to finish my speech.
“Well, what were you going to say?”
“I was going to ask you if—if—”
“I was going to keep slaves like my neighbours, eh?”