“‘I’ll sell him cheap, sonny,’ said the man; ‘name your own price, give me the money, and take him.’
“The Little Master slapped the pommel of his saddle, and I knew by that he was angry. But what he intended to say was never said, for just then the White-haired Master and the teacher came by in the buggy, going at a sweeping trot, and the Little Master gave me the rein to follow, which I was more than glad to do. Never before had I seen the White-haired Master use the whip on old Sorrel, the buggy horse, but he used it that day, and I had hard work to catch up and keep up. The teacher had turned in his seat and watched the file of negroes and the covered wagons as far as he could see them. There was a frown on his face, and his eyes had a queer light in them. I always dodge when a man looks at me that way.
“I think the White-haired Master wanted to get the teacher away from that procession of negroes. I heard them talking as I cantered behind the buggy.
“‘You are from the North, and, of course, you don’t understand these things,’ said the White-haired Master.
“‘You are right,’ replied the teacher. ‘I don’t understand them at all. I’m truly sorry I saw that sight. I shall see it again in my dreams.’
“‘I have been living here fifty years,’ the White-haired Master remarked, ‘and that is the second time I ever saw it.’
“The teacher said nothing more, and we soon entered the town, where there was a great many people. Hitched to one of the racks I saw a roan mule that had given me a vicious bite when we were in the drove together. He was poor enough now, and his ears hung dejectedly. I wanted to stop and read him a moral, but the Little Master bade me go on, and I had no opportunity to speak to my old tormentor.”