"Nat Bradley!" exclaimed the young planter, evidently under some surprise, which might be caused by an unexpected encounter.
"Yes, Nat Bradley it is."
"Who'd have looked for you here? Where have you been?"
"Only out to take a squint at the old place. Mighty glad I got shet of it. You're all a set of fools for staying in Tennessee. Talk of growin' cotton up here! Mississippi's the place for that. Why, the meanest nigger on my plant can make two bales to your one."
"I've heard you have been having great success. My brother has written to say so."
"Has he, indeed? Well, it's a wonder he don't give up his corn-growing and try the cotton too. For my part I go in for the weed that fetches the ready cash—twenty cents to the pound. You've a good crop this year, haven't you?"
"I believe it is."
"How many bales are you countin' on?"
"Father thinks there will be nearly two hundred."
"D——d handsome crop, if you can only get it safe to market. I've heard out on Duck you intend flatting it."