An unwashed, dingy-faced young negro, clothed in rags unspeakably
vile, which scarcely concealed his nakedness, was standing in the
midst of a group of white men, toward whom he threw now and then a
shallow and shifty glance. The air was heavy with the odour of stale
tobacco, and the floor dotted with discarded portions of the weed. A
white man stood beside a desk and was addressing the audience:
"Now, gentlemen, here's Lot Number Three, a likely young nigger who
answers to the name of Sam Brown. Not much to look at, but will make a
good field hand, if looked after right and kept away from liquor; used
to workin', when in the chain gang, where he's been, off and on, since
he was ten years old. Amount of fine an' costs thirty-seven dollars
an' a half. A musical nigger, too, who plays the banjo, an' sings jus'
like a--like a blackbird. What am I bid for this prime lot?"
The negro threw a dull glance around the crowd with an air of
detachment which seemed to say that he was not at all interested in
the proceedings. The colonel viewed the scene with something more than
curious interest. The fellow looked like an habitual criminal, or at
least like a confirmed loafer. This must be one of the idle and
worthless blacks with so many of whom the South was afflicted. This
was doubtless the method provided by law for dealing with them.
"One year," answered a voice.
"Nine months," said a second.
"Six months," came a third bid, from a tall man with a buggy whip
under his arm.
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