"Dem's um, Mars'! Goin' 'mediate,"—catching the tobacco, and lolling down full length as his master turned off again.
Dave Hall, the sentry, stared reflectively, and sat down.
"Ben? Who air you next?"—nursing his musket across his knees, baby-fashion.
Ben measured him with one eye, polished the quid in his greasy hand, and looked at it.
"Pris'ner o' war," he mumbled, finally,—contemptuously; for Dave's trousers were in rags like his own, and his chilblained toes stuck through the shoe-tops. Cheap white trash, clearly.
"Yer master's some at swearin'. Heow many, neow, hes he like you, down to Georgy?"
The boatman's bony face was gathering a woful pity. He had enlisted to free the Uncle Toms, and carry God's vengeance to the Legrees. Here they were, a pair of them.
Ben squinted another critical survey of the "miss'able Linkinite."
"How many wells hev yer poisoned since yer set out?" he muttered.
The sentry stopped.