“Have you seen the Clayville Dime?”

Moore chucked me a very shabby little sheet of printed matter.  It fluttered feebly in the warm air, and finally dropped on my recumbent frame.  I was lolling in a hammock in the shade of the verandah.

I did not feel much inclined for study, but I picked up the Clayville Dime and lazily glanced at that periodical, while Moore relapsed into the pages of Ixtlilxochitl.  He was a literary character for a planter, had been educated at Oxford (where I made his acquaintance), and had inherited from his father, with a large collection of Indian and Mexican curiosities, a taste for the ancient history of the New World.

Sometimes I glanced at the newspaper; sometimes I looked out at the pleasant Southern garden, where the fountain flashed and fell among weeping willows, and laurels, orange-trees, and myrtles.

“Hullo!” I cried suddenly, disturbing Moore’s Aztec researches, “here is a queer affair in the usually quiet town of Clayville.  Listen to this;” and I read aloud the following “par,” as I believe paragraphs are styled in newspaper offices: ­

“’Instinct and Accident. ­As Colonel Randolph was driving through our town yesterday and was passing Captain Jones’s sample-room, where the colonel lately shot Moses Widlake in the street, the horses took alarm and started violently downhill.  The colonel kept his seat till rounding the corner by the Clayville Bank, when his wheels came into collision with that edifice, and our gallant townsman was violently shot out.  He is now lying in a very precarious condition.  This may relieve Tom Widlake of the duty of shooting the colonel in revenge for his father.  It is commonly believed that Colonel Randolph’s horses were maddened by the smell of the blood which has dried up where old Widlake was shot.  Much sympathy is felt for the colonel.  Neither of the horses was injured.’”

“Clayville appears to be a lively kind of place,” I said.  “Do you often have shootings down here?”

“We do,” said Moore, rather gravely; “it is one of our institutions with which I could dispense.”

“And do you ‘carry iron,’ as the Greeks used to say, or ‘go heeled,’ as your citizens express it?”

“No, I don’t; neither pistol nor knife.  If any one shoots me, he shoots an unarmed man.  The local bullies know it, and they have some scruple about shooting in that case.  Besides, they know I am an awkward customer at close quarters.”

Moore relapsed into his Mexican historian, and I into the newspaper.

“Here is a chance of seeing one of your institutions at last,” I said.

I had found an advertisement concerning a lot of negroes to be sold that very day by public auction in Clayville.  All this, of course, was “before the war.”

“Well, I suppose you ought to see it,” said Moore, rather reluctantly.  He was gradually emancipating his own servants, as I knew, and was even suspected of being a director of “the Underground Railroad” to Canada.

“Peter,” he cried, “will you be good enough to saddle three horses and bring them round?”

Peter, a “darkey boy” who had been hanging about in the garden, grinned and went off.  He was a queer fellow, Peter, a plantation humourist, well taught in all the then unpublished lore of “Uncle Remus.”  Peter had a way of his own, too, with animals, and often aided Moore in collecting objects of natural history.

“Did you get me those hornets, Peter?” said Moore, when the black returned with the horses.

“Got ’em safe, massa, in a little box,” replied Peter, who then mounted and followed at a respectful distance as our squire.

Without many more words we rode into the forest which lay between Clayville and Moore’s plantation.  Through the pine barrens ran the road, and on each side of the way was luxuriance of flowering creepers.  The sweet faint scent of the white jessamine and the homely fragrance of honeysuckle filled the air, and the wild white roses were in perfect blossom.  Here and there an aloe reminded me that we were not at home, and dwarf palms and bayonet palmettoes, with the small pointed leaf of the “live oak,” combined to make the scenery look foreign and unfamiliar.  There was a soft haze in the air, and the sun’s beams only painted, as it were, the capitals of the tall pillar-like pines, while the road was canopied and shaded by the skeins of grey moss that hung thickly on all the boughs.

The trees grew thinner as the road approached the town.  Dusty were the ways, and sultry the air, when we rode into Clayville and were making for “the noisy middle market-place.”  Clayville was but a small border town, though it could then boast the presence of a squadron of cavalry, sent there to watch the “border ruffians.”  The square was neither large nor crowded, but the spectacle was strange and interesting to me.  Men who had horses or carts to dispose of were driving or riding about, noisily proclaiming the excellence of their wares.  But buyers were more concerned, like myself, with the slave-market.  In the open air, in the middle of the place, a long table was set.  The crowd gathered round this, and presented types of various sorts of citizens.  The common “mean white” was spitting and staring ­a man fallen so low that he had no nigger to wallop, and was thus even more abject, because he had no natural place and functions in local society, than the slaves themselves.  The local drunkard was uttering sagacities to which no mortal attended.  Two or three speculators were bidding on commission, and there were a few planters, some of them mounted, and a mixed multitude of tradesmen, loafers, bar-keepers, newspaper reporters, and idlers in general.  At either end of the long table sat an auctioneer, who behaved with the traditional facetiousness of the profession.  As the “lots” came on for sale they mounted the platform, generally in family parties.  A party would fetch from one thousand to fifteen hundred dollars, according to its numbers and “condition.”  The spectacle was painful and monstrous.  Most of the “lots” bore the examination of their points with a kind of placid dignity, and only showed some little interest when the biddings grew keen and flattered their pride.

The sale was almost over, and we were just about to leave, when a howl of derision from the mob made us look round.  What I saw was the apparition of an extremely aged and debilitated black man standing on the table.  What Moore saw to interest him I could not guess, but he grew pale and uttered an oath of surprise under his breath, though he rarely swore.  Then he turned his horse’s head again towards the auctioneer.  That merry tradesman was extolling the merits of nearly his last lot.  “A very remarkable specimen, gentlemen!  Admirers of the antique cannot dispense with this curious nigger ­very old and quite imperfect.  Like so many of the treasures of Greek art which have reached us, he has had the misfortune to lose his nose and several of his fingers.  How much offered for this exceptional lot ­unmarried and without encumbrances of any kind?  He is dumb too, and may be trusted with any secret.”

“Take him off!” howled some one in the crowd.

“Order his funeral!”

“Chuck him into the next lot.”

“What, gentlemen, no bids for this very eligible nigger?  With a few more rags he would make a most adequate scarecrow.”

While this disgusting banter was going on I observed a planter ride up to one of the brokers and whisper for some time in his ear.  The planter was a bad but unmistakable likeness of my friend Moore, worked over, so to speak, with a loaded brush and heavily glazed with old Bourbon whisky.  After giving his orders to the agent he retired to the outskirts of the crowd, and began flicking his long dusty boots with a serviceable cowhide whip.

“Well, gentlemen, we must really adopt the friendly suggestion of Judge Lee and chuck this nigger into the next lot.”

So the auctioneer was saying, when the broker to whom I have referred cried out, “Ten dollars.”

“This is more like business,” cried the auctioneer.  “Ten dollars offered!  What amateur says more than ten dollars for this lot?  His extreme age and historical reminiscences alone, if he could communicate them, would make him invaluable to the student.”

To my intense amazement Moore shouted from horseback, “Twenty dollars.”

“What, you want a cheap nigger to get your hand in, do you, you blank-blanked abolitionist?” cried a man who stood near.  He was a big, dirty-looking bully, at least half drunk, and attending (not unnecessarily) to his toilet with the point of a long, heavy knife.

Before the words were out of his mouth Moore had leaped from his horse and delivered such a right-handed blow as that wherewith the wandering beggar-man smote Irus of old in the courtyard of Odysseus, Laertes’ son.  “On his neck, beneath the ear, he smote him, and crushed in the bones; and the red blood gushed up through his mouth, and he gnashed his teeth together as he kicked the ground.”  Moore stooped, picked up the bowie-knife, and sent it glittering high through the air.

“Take him away,” he said, and two rough fellows, laughing, carried the bully to the edge of the fountain that played in the corner of the square.  He was still lying crumpled up there when we rode out of Clayville.

The bidding, of course, had stopped, owing to the unaffected interest which the public took in this more dramatic interlude.  The broker, it is true, had bid twenty-five dollars, and was wrangling with the auctioneer.

“You have my bid, Mr. Brinton, sir, and there is no other offer.  Knock down the lot to me.”

“You wait your time, Mr. Isaacs,” said the auctioneer.  “No man can do two things at once and do them well.  When Squire Moore has settled with Dick Bligh he will desert the paths of military adventure for the calmer and more lucrative track of commercial enterprise.”

The auctioneer’s command of long words was considerable, and was obviously of use to him in his daily avocations.

When he had rounded his period, Moore was in the saddle again, and nodded silently to the auctioneer.

“Squire Moore bids thirty dollars.  Thirty dollars for this once despised but now appreciated fellow-creature,” rattled on the auctioneer.

The agent nodded again.

“Forty dollars bid,” said the auctioneer.

“Fifty,” cried Moore.

The broker nodded.

“Sixty.”

The agent nodded again.

The bidding ran rapidly up to three hundred and fifty dollars.

The crowd were growing excited, and had been joined by every child in the town, by every draggled and sunburnt woman, and the drinking-bar had disgorged every loafer who felt sober enough to stay the distance to the centre of the square.

My own first feelings of curiosity had subsided.  I knew how strong and burning was Moore’s hatred of oppression, and felt convinced that he merely wished at any sacrifice of money to secure for this old negro some peaceful days and a quiet deathbed.

The crowd doubtless took the same obvious view of the case as I did, and was now eagerly urging on the two competitors.

“Never say die, Isaacs.”

“Stick to it, Squire; the nigger’s well worth the dollars.”

So they howled, and now the biddings were mounting towards one thousand dollars, when the sulky planter rode up to the neighbourhood of the table ­much to the inconvenience of the “gallery” ­and whispered to his agent.  The conference lasted some minutes, and at the end of it the agent capped Moore’s last offer, one thousand dollars, with a bid of one thousand two hundred.

“Fifteen hundred,” said Moore, amidst applause.

“Look here, Mr. Knock-’em-down,” cried Mr. Isaacs:  “it’s hot and thirsty work sitting, nodding here; I likes my ease on a warm day; so just you reckon that I see the Squire, and go a hundred dollars more as long as I hold up my pencil.”

He stuck a long gnawed pencil erect between his finger and thumb, and stared impertinently at Moore.  The Squire nodded, and the bidding went on in this silent fashion till the bids had actually run up to three thousand four hundred dollars.  All this while the poor negro, whose limbs no longer supported him, crouched in a heap on the table, turning his haggard eye alternately on Moore and on the erect and motionless pencil of the broker.  The crowd had become silent with excitement.  Unable to stand the heat and agitation, Moore’s unfriendly brother had crossed the square in search of a “short drink.”  Moore nodded once more.

“Three thousand six hundred dollars bid,” cried the auctioneer, and looked at Isaacs.

With a wild howl Isaacs dashed his pencil in the air, tossed up his hands, and thrust them deep down between his coat collar and his body, uttering all the while yells of pain.

“Don’t you bid, Mr. Isaacs?” asked the auctioneer, without receiving any answer except Semitic appeals to holy Abraham, blended with Aryan profanity.

“Come,” said Moore very severely, “his pencil is down, and he has withdrawn his bid.  There is no other bidder; knock the lot down to me.”

“No more offers?” said the auctioneer slowly, looking all round the square.

There were certainly no offers from Mr. Isaacs, who now was bounding like the gad-stung Io to the furthest end of the place.

“This fine buck-negro, warranted absolutely unsound of wind and limb, going, going, a shameful sacrifice, for a poor three thousand six hundred dollars.  Going, going ­gone!”

The hammer fell with a sharp, decisive sound.

A fearful volley of oaths rattled after the noise, like thunder rolling away in the distance.

Moore’s brother had returned from achieving a “short drink” just in time to see his coveted lot knocked down to his rival.

We left the spot, with the negro in the care of Peter, as quickly as might be.

“I wonder,” said Moore, as we reached the inn and ordered a trap to carry our valuable bargain home in ­“I wonder what on earth made Isaacs run off like a maniac.”

“Massa,” whispered Peter, “yesterday I jes’ caught yer Brer Hornet a-loafin’ around in the wood.  ‘Come wi’ me,’ says I, ’and bottled him in this yer pasteboard box,’” showing one which had held Turkish tobacco.  “When I saw that Hebrew Jew wouldn’t stir his pencil, I jes’ crept up softly and dropped Brer Hornet down his neck.  Then he jes’ rose and went.  Spec’s he and Brer Hornet had business of their own.”

“Peter,” said Moore, “you are a good boy, but you will come to a bad end.”