“Then I ’spose ’ee don’t approve of the slave-trade?” said Disco.
“No, dat am true,” replied Antonio; “de country very good for slave-trader, but no good for man like me what want to trade proper.”
“H’m! I’ve more respect for ’ee than I had,” said Disco. “I ’spose you’ve bin up in these parts before now, have ’ee?”
“No, nevah, but I hab sister what marry one nigger, one slave, what sold himself, an’ him tell me much ’bout it. Hims bin up here many time.”
“Sold himself!” repeated Harold in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Mean dat,” returned Antonio. “Him was a black free-man—call him Chibanti; him was all alone in de world, lose fader, moder, broder, sister, wife, eberyting by slave-trader, who steal dem all away or murder dem. So Chibanti him say, ‘What de use of be free?’ So him go to one master, who berry good to hims niggers—gib dem plenty to eat an’ little to do—an’ sole hisself to him.”
“An’ wot did he get for himself?” asked Disco.
“Got ninety yard ob cottin cloth.”
“Did he consider himself cheap or dear at that?” inquired Disco.
“Oh, dear—awful dear!”