“Want me! For what, nephew?”
There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter—before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!
True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him—his sister’s son.
But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.
“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.
It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.
Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation—as also the nature of the subject.
The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.
“About Loo? What of her?” he inquired, with assumed calmness.
“Well,” said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, “I—I—wanted—”