“No, Master George, boy, so your father said; and I’m going to ask him to graft me.”
“To graft you?”
“Ay, my lad, with a row of extra arms all down each side, like that picture of the Injin idol in your book.”
“What nonsense, Morgan!”
“Oh, I don’t know, Master George. One pair of hands can’t do the work here. Wants a dozen pair, seems to me. Well, I’ve done my dooty. I told master there was a chance to get some slaves.”
“And of course my father would not buy slaves,” I said, indignantly.
“No, sir; and the house and plantations I’ve took such pride in will all go to ruin now.”
“Morgan!”
We both started and looked round to see my father standing in the rough porch of rugged oak-wood.
The man went up to him.