"I don't know that," I replied. "Within the sound of their voices, two of their fellows—victims to the inhumanity of slavery—are lying dead, and yet they make Sunday "hideous" with wild jollity, while Sam's fate may be theirs to-morrow."
Spite of his genuine courtesy and high breeding, a shade of displeasure passed over the Colonel's face as I made this remark. Rising to go, he said, a little impatiently, "Ah, I see how it is; that d—— Garrison's sentiments have impregnated even you. How can the North and the South hold together when moderate men like you and me are so far apart?"
"But you," I rejoined, good-humoredly, "are not a moderate man. You and Garrison are of the same stripe, both extremists. You have mounted one hobby, he another; that is all the difference."
"I should be sorry," he replied, recovering his good nature, "to think myself like Garrison. I consider him the —— scoundrel unhung."
"No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together and yet keep you apart."
"I, for one, won't be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba."
I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to interrupt a white conversation.
"Hallo, Jim," I said; "have you got back?"
"Yas, sar," replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable thing to communicate.
"Where is Moye?" asked the Colonel.