'How much is said for these prime negroes?' cried the auctioneer. Everybody knows what they are, and there's no use preaching a sermon over them. Boss Joe might do that, but I can't. He can preach equal to any white man you ever hard. Come, gentlemen, start a bid. How much do you say?'
'A thousand,' said a voice in the crowd.
'Eleven hundred,' cried another.
'It's a d—d shame to bid on them, gentlemen. Boss Joe has been saving money to buy himself; and I think no white man should bid against him,' cried a man at my elbow.
It was Gaston, who had just arrived on the ground.
'Thet's a fact.' 'Them's my sentiments.' 'D—n th' man thet'll bid agin a nigger.' 'Thet's so, Gaston,' echoed from all directions.
'But I yere th' darky's got a pile—some two thousan'; thet gwoes 'long with him, uv course,' yelled one of the crowd.
'Of course it don't!' said young Joe, from the stand. 'He's saved about three thousand out of a commission his master allowed him; but he gave that to me, long before my father died. It is mine—not his. I bid twelve hundred for him and his wife; and I will say to the audience, that I shall advance on whatever sum may be offered for them. So fire away, gentlemen; I ask no favors.'
'Is there any more bid for this excellent couple?' cried the auctioneer. 'It is my duty to cry them, and to tell you they're worth twice that money.'
There was no more bid, and Boss Joe and Aggy were struck down at twelve hundred dollars—about two thirds their market value.