'Reckon she's a goner, Cunnel; the d——d Yankee orter swing fur it.'
This intimation that the overseer was a 'countryman' of mine, took me by surprise, nothing I had observed in his speech or manners having indicated it, but I consoled myself with the reflection that Connecticut had reared him—as she makes wooden hams and nutmegs—expressly for the Southern market.'
'He shall swing for it, by ——. But are you sure the dog will die?'
'Not shore, Cunnel, but she can't stand, and the blood will run. I reckon a hun'red and fifty ar done for thar, sartin.'
'D—— the money—I'll make that right. Go to the house and get some ointment from Madam—she can save her—go at once,' said my host.
'I will, Cunnel,' replied the dirt-eater, taking his broad-brim from the wooden peg where it was reposing, and leisurely leaving the cabin. Making our way over the piles of rubbish and crowds of children that cumbered the apartment, the Colonel and I then returned to the carriage.
'Dogs must be rare in this region,' I remarked, as we resumed our seats.
'Yes, well-trained bloodhounds are scarce every where. That dog is well worth a hundred and fifty dollars.'
'The business of nigger-catching, then, is brisk, just now?'
'No, not more brisk than usual. We always have more or less runaways.'