"Not shore, Cunnel, but she can't stand, and the blood will run. I reckon a hun'red and fifty ar done for thar, sartin."
"D—— the money—I'll make that right. Go to the house and get some ointment from Madam—she can save her—go at once," said my host.
"I will, Cunnel," replied the dirt-eater, taking his broad-brim from a wooden peg, and leisurely leaving the cabin. Making our way then over the piles of rubbish and crowds of children that cumbered the apartment, the Colonel and I returned to the carriage.
"Dogs must be rare in this region," I remarked, as we resumed our seats.
"Yes, well-trained bloodhounds are scarce everywhere. That dog is well worth a hundred and fifty dollars."
"The business of nigger-catching, then, is brisk, just now?"
"No, not more brisk than usual. We always have more or less runaways."
"Do most of them take to the swamps?"
"Yes, nine out of ten do, though now and then one gets off on a trading vessel. It is almost impossible for a strange nigger to make his way by land from here to the free states."
"Then why do you Carolinians make such an outcry about the violation of the Fugitive Slave Law?"