"Read that, Scip."
He read it, but made no remark.
"What does it mean—that fresh bullet wound, and the marks of a recent whipping?" I asked.
"It mean, massa, dat de darky hab run away, and ben took; and dat when dey took him dey shot him, and flogged him arter dat. Now, he hab run away agin. De Cunnel's mighty hard on his niggas!"
"Is he? I can scarcely believe that."
"He am, massa; but he arnt so much to blame, nuther; dey'm awful bad, most ob 'em—so dey say."
Our conversation was here interrupted by our reaching the bridge. After safely "walking the plank," and making our way to the opposite bank, I resumed it by asking:
"Why are the Colonel's negroes so particularly bad?"
"'Cause, you see, massa, de turpentime business hab made great profits for sum yars now, and de Cunnel hab been gettin' rich bery fass. He put all his money, jes so fass as he make it, into darkies, so to make more; for he's got bery big plantation, and need nuffin' but darkies to work it to make money jess like a gold mine. He goes up to Virginny to buy niggas; and up dar now dey don't sell none less dey'm bad uns, 'cep when sum massa die or git pore. Virginny darkies dat cum down har aint gin'rally ob much account. Dey'm either kinder good-for-nuffin, or dey'm ugly; and de Cunnel'd ruther hab de ugly dan de no-account niggas."
"How many negroes has he?"