“What do you mean?” exclaimed Berrien.
“You kin sell me, suh, but I ain’t gwine stay wid um.”
“You can’t help yourself,” said the master.
“I got legs, Marse Berry. You know dat yo’se’f.”
“Your legs will do you no good. You’ll be caught if you go back home.”
“I ain’t gwine dar, suh. I’m gwine wid you. I hear you say yistiddy night p’intedly dat you gwine ’way f’om dis place, an’ I’m gwine wid you. I been ’long wid you all de time, an’ ole marster done tole me w’en you was baby dat I got ter stay wid you.”
Something in this view seemed to strike Mr. Cozart. He walked up and down the floor a few minutes, and then fell to laughing.
“By George, Balaam, you are a trump,—a royal flush in spades. It will be a famous joke.”
Thereupon Berrien Cozart arranged his cards, so to speak, for a more hazardous game than any he had ever yet played. He went with Balaam to a trader who was an expert in the slave market, and who knew its ups and downs, its weak points and its strong points. At first Berrien was disposed to put Balaam on the block and have him auctioned off to the highest bidder; but the trader knew the negro, and had already made a study of his strong points. To be perfectly sure, however, he thumped Balaam on the chest, listened to the beating of his heart, and felt of his muscles in quite a professional way.