“What makes you think so?” was the reply.
“Voice sounds tired, Marster. Rather curis voice, an’ not zactly like yours, Marster. ’Spect you fout them soul-drivers oncommon hard to-night. I’d liked to fout, too, but fight’s most out o’ me, Marster. How do you feel, Marster Harrin’ton?”
“Are you ever ashamed of yourself, Antony, when you think of all you don’t know, and can’t do?”
“Yes, Marster.”
“You know you are a very poor man, Antony.”
“Yes, Marster.”
“Very humble, very low, very ignorant, perhaps wicked.”
“Yes, Marster.”
“Well, did you ever, for a little while even, feel that you were greater and wiser and better than you had thought you were?”
“Yes, Marster. Had that feelin’ come over me once awful. It was ’long back when I was chokin’ with no air, an’ most gone for somethin’ to eat, lyin’ on the cotton in the hold of the Solomon, Marster. Tried to make a noise to be let out, Marster, and couldn’t. Then I guv up for good, an’ felt as if I was dyin’, an’ all on a sudden like, when I was sort o’ sailin’ away, that feelin’ come over me awful, Marster. Oncommon grand feelin’, an’ I can’t account for it nohow, but it was oncommon grand, Marster.”