"I don't see any particular harm in keepin' slaves," Mr. Hopper replied, shifting to the other foot.
Whereupon the Colonel stretched his legs apart, seized his goatee, pulled his head down, and gazed at him for some time from under his eyebrows, so searchingly that the blood flew to Mr. Hopper's fleshy face. He mopped it with a dark-red handkerchief, stared at everything in the place save the gentleman in front of him, and wondered whether he had ever in his life been so uncomfortable. Then he smiled sheepishly, hated himself, and began to hate the Colonel.
"Ever hear of the Liberator?"
"No, sir," said Mr. Hopper.
"Where do you come from?" This was downright directness, from which there was no escape.
"Willesden, Massachusetts."
"Umph! And never heard of Mr. Garrison?"
"I've had to work all my life."
"What can you do, sonny?"
"I cal'late to sweep out a store. I have kept books," Mr. Hopper vouchsafed.