What is it makes the Frisbie color heighten so? Is it Gentleman Bill's quiet smile, as he stands by and hears this conversation?
"And you have been here ever since?" says the man, in a humbler key, and with a milder look, than before.
"Yes! It's a r'al good place!" says the youth.
"But a'n't you ashamed to live with niggers?"
"Ashamed? What for? Nobody else was good to me. But they was good to me. I a'n't ashamed."
The Frisbie color heightens more and more. He looks at that wretched dwelling,—he glances aside at Mr. Williams, that coal-black Christian, of sad and resigned demeanor, waiting ruefully to see the roof torn off,—the only roof that had afforded shelter to the perishing outcast. Mr. Frisbie is not one of the "soft kind," but he feels the prick of conscience in his heart.
"Why didn't you go to the poor-house? Didn't anybody tell you to?"
"Yes, that's what they said. But nobody showed me the way, and I couldn't find it."
"Where did you come from? Who are you?"
"Fessenden's."