THE BOG-ORE TRACT.
Resolution of character and executive power had been trifled away by
Judge Custis. The trader had concluded their interview with a decision
and fierceness that left paralysis upon the gentleman's mind. He saw, in
sad fancy, the execution served upon his furniture, the amazement of his
wife, the pallor of his daughter, the indignation of his sons. He also
shrank before the impending failure of his furnace and abandonment of
the bog-ore tract, on which he had raised so much state and local fame;
people would say: "Custis was a fool, and deceived himself, while old
Steeple-top Milburn played upon the Custises' vanity, and turned them
into the street."
"No doubt," thought the Judge, "that fellow, Milburn, can get anything
when he gets my house. The poor folks' vote he may command, because he
is of their class. He is a lender to many of the rich. Who could have
suspected his intelligence? His address, too? He handled me as if I were
a forester and he a judge. A very, very remarkable man!" finished Judge
Custis, taking the last of the brandy.
He was interrupted by the entrance of Samson Hat.
"Where's your master, boy?" asked the Judge.
"He's gone up to de ole house, Judge, where his daddy and mammy died.
It's de place where I hides after my fights."
"May the ague strike him there! Let the bilious sweat from the mill-pond
be strong to-night, that, like Judas of old, his bowels may drop out!
But, no," continued the irresolute man, "I have no right to hate him.
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