"Oh! Buchanan and Breckenridge, sir, except one or two and the darkey barber. He's a runaway—I guess. Been here these three or four years. Squire likes him because he's clever about breaking colts."
"Indeed!"
"He's a lazy nigger, sir; ought to be sent back where he belongs."
"What is his name? I suppose he can shave me."
"Calls himself Josiah," said Peter. "Mighty poor barber—cut my face last time he shaved me. You see, he's lost two fingers—makes him awkwarder."
"What! what!" said Grey, of a sudden reflecting, "two fingers—"
"Know him?" said Lamb quickly.
"I—no—Do you suppose I know every runaway nigger?"
"Oh, of course not. Might I ask your name, sir?"
"I am a cousin of Mrs. Penhallow. My name is Grey." Peter became cautious and silent. "Here is a little help, my man, until you get work. Stick to the good old Party." He left two dollars in Lamb's eager hands.