The free negro, Samson Hat, being a
little way off, was observed to cast a beaming glance of admiration at
the athletic proportions of the stranger, who looked as if he might
shoulder an ox, or outrun a horse.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Jimmy Phoebus, looking the stranger over boldly,
yet with indifference, at last. "You're cuttin' a splurge, Levin, too.
Where's Meshach?"
"Can't see no sign of him, Jimmy. Guess Jack Wonnell hit it, an' he's
gone in the Jedge's. Mebbe he's buyin' of Jedge Custis's niggers. That's
this gentleman's business."
Jimmy Phoebus, himself no slight specimen of a man, gave another
glance at the stranger from the black cherries of his eyes, and,
apparently no better satisfied with the inspection, made no sign of
acquaintance.
"Whoever ain't too nice to drink with a nigger buyer," said the man,
independently, "can come in and set up his drink, with my redge, for I'm
rhino-fat and just rotten with flush."
There was a pause for somebody to take the initiative, but Jimmy
Phoebus, turning his big, broad Greekish face and small forehead on
the stranger, remarked:
"I never tuk a drink with a nigger buyer yit, and, by smoke! I reckon
I'm too old to begin."
The man stopped and measured Jimmy up in his eye.
"Humph!" he said with a sneer, "you look to be a little more than half
nigger yourself. If I was dead broke I'd run you to market an' git my
price for you.
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