“‘Good-day, sonny,’ replied the man, but he kept his eye on the negro at the head of the file.
“‘Whose negroes are these?’ the Little Master asked.
“‘Mine,’ said the man, smacking his lips over it; ‘every one mine.’
“Then we went on in silence. The Little Master had a way, when he was puzzled, of reaching over the saddle and twisting a wisp of mane between his fingers. He did this now. He curled the wisp of hair on his forefinger and uncurled it ever so many times, as we went on in silence. I noticed that the negro at the head of the file had his arms tied at the elbows. The whole weight of the long rope, which was a big one, fell on this negro, but he was tall and strong and moved forward without sign of distress.
“Presently the Little Master spoke to the man again. ‘What have your negroes done that they should be carried to jail?’
“The man laughed loudly, as he replied: ‘I’m not carrying them to jail. They are for sale.’
“‘Then you are a negro speculator,’ said the Little Master.
“‘That’s what some people call me, sonny; speculator or what not, I have negroes for sale. If you want to buy one, I’ll sell you that buck at the head of the gang. He’s the finest of the lot, but I’ll sell him cheap. He’s worse than a tiger.’
“The Little Master urged me forward until we came to the side of the man at the head of the file. That was my first sight of the Son of Ben Ali. I knew at once that he was no negro. The Little Master spoke to him, and he smiled as he answered.