'Yas, a right smart pile, in thet, an' cotton. He got me inter th' d—d staple. I hed nigh on ter sixty thousan' then—hard rocks; but I lost it all—every dollar—at one slap; though I reckon he managed, somehow, ter get out.'
'Yes, of course, he got out, and saddled the loss upon you. Were you such a fool as not to see that?'
'P'raps he did; but he covered his trail. He's smart; ye karn't track him. But it makes no odds; I hev ter keep in with him. I couldn't do a thing, ef I didn't.'
'Yes, you could. Come North. I'll give you honest work to do.'
'You're a gentleman, Mr. Kirke, an' I'm 'bliged ter ye; but I karn't leave yere. I've got a wife an' chil'ren, an' the' wouldn't live 'mong ye abolitionists, nohow.'
'You have a wife and children?'
'Yas'; a wife, an' two as likely young 'uns as ye ever seed—boy 'bout seven, an' gal 'bout twelve.'
'Well, Larkin, suppose your little girl was upon that auction block; suppose some villain had hired me to aid in debauching her; suppose you, her father, should come to me and plead with me not to do it; suppose I should tell you what you have told me, and then—should go out and buy your child; what would you do? Would you not curse me with your very last breath?'
He seated himself, and hung down his head, but made no reply.
'Answer me, like the honest man you are.'