'I should be sorry,' he replied, recovering his good-nature, 'to think myself like Garrison. I consider him the —— scoundrel unhung.'
'No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together and yet keep you apart.'
'I, for one, won't be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba.'
I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to interrupt a white conversation.
'Hallo, Jim,' I said; 'have you got back?'
'Yas, sar,' replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable thing to communicate.
'Where is Moye?' asked the Colonel.
'Kotched, massa; I'se got de padlocks on him.'
'Kotched,' echoed half a dozen darkies, who stood near enough to hear; 'Ole Moye is kotched,' ran through the crowd, till the music ceased, and a shout went up from two hundred black throats that made the old trees tremble.
'Now gib him de lashes, Massa Davy,' cried the old nurse. 'Gib him what he gabe pore Sam; but mine dat you keeps widin de law.'