“Oh! Uncle Jim, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Den you muss’ hab all dem gray whiskers shaved off, and dem gray hairs plucked out of your head. De fack is, you’s got ole too quick.” This was all said by Pompey in a manner which showed that he knew his business.
“How ole is you?” asked Pompey of a tall, strong-looking man.
“I am twenty-nine, nex’ Christmas Eve,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Tobias,” replied the slave.
“Tobias!” ejaculated Pompey, with a sneer, that told that he was ready to show his brief authority. “Now you’s puttin’ on airs. Your name is Toby, an’ why can’t you tell the truf? Remember, now, dat you is twenty-three years ole; an’ afore you goes in de market your face muss’ be greased; fer I see you’s one of dem kind o’ ashy niggers, an’ a little grease will make your face look black an’ slick, an’ make you look younger.”
Pompey reported to his master the condition of affairs, when the latter said, “Be sure that the niggers don’t forget what you have taught them, for our luck depends a great deal upon the appearance of our stock.”
With this lot of slaves was a beautiful quadroon, a girl of twenty years, fair as most white women, with hair a little wavy, large black eyes, and a countenance that betokened intelligence beyond the common house servant. Her name was Marion, and the jealousy of the mistress, so common in those days, was the cause of her being sold.