“To buy! From me, do you mean?”
“Yesh, Mishter Vochan, if you’re disposed to shell.”
“Come, that’s something new, neighbour Jessuron! I know you’re always ready for a trade; but this is the first time I ever heard of you buying slaves on a plantation.”
“Well, the truth ish, Mishter Vochan, I hash a cushtomer, who wants a likely wench for waiting at hish table. Theresh none among my shtock, he thinks good enough for hish purposh. I wash thinking you hash got one, if you could shpare her, that would suit him nishely.”
“Which do you mean?”
“I mean that young Foolah wench ash I sold you lasht year—joosh after crop time.”
“Oh! the girl Yola?”
“Yesh, I think that wosh her name. Ash you had her dirt sheep, I don’t mind giving you shomething on your bargain—shay ten pounds currenshy?”
“Poh, poh, poh!” replied the planter, with a deprecating shrug. “That would never do—even if I meant to sell the girl. But I have no wish to part with her.”
“Shay twenty, then?”