An unintelligible gurgle came from the Judge. Then he said.
"Carvel, haven't you and I quarrelled enough on that subject?"
"You didn't happen to attend the nigger auction this morning when you were at the court?" asked the Colonel, blandly.
"Colonel," said the Judge, "I've warned you a hundred times against the stuff you lay out on your counter for customers."
"You weren't at the auction, then," continued the Colonel, undisturbed. "You missed it, sir. You missed seeing this young man you've just employed buy the prettiest quadroon wench I ever set eyes on."
Now indeed was poor Stephen on his feet. But whether to fly in at the one entrance or out at the other, he was undecided.
"Colonel," said Mr. Whipple, "is that true?"
"Sir!"
"MR. BRICE!"
It did not seem to Stephen as if he was walking when he went toward the ground glass door. He opened it. There was Colonel Carvel seated on the bed, his goatee in his hand. And there was the Judge leaning forward from his hips, straight as a ramrod. Fire was darting from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Mr. Brice," said he, "there is one question I always ask of those whom I employ. I omitted it in your case because I have known your father and your grandfather before you. What is your opinion, sir, on the subject of holding human beings in bondage?"
The answer was immediate,—likewise simple.