Hank Davis and Bill Sampson met once more before they left the wharf. "Ef they hain't got an overseer, I'm goin' to 'ply fer the job"; said Hank, "never seed sich a booty in my life."
Bill Sampson scratched his head meditatively: "Strikes me, Hank, thet thet ar female's got a black streak in her somewhar."
Hank stared at Bill a moment, as though he thought he had suddenly lost his senses; then he burst into a loud guffaw.
"You git out, Bill Sampson."
"Wall, maybe," said Bill, "maybe so. Thar's too much cream color in the face and too little blud seen under the skin fer a genooine white 'ooman. You can't tell nothin' 'bout these Britishers; they're allers squeamish 'bout thar nigger brats; yas, sah, very squeamish. I've hern tell that they think nuthin of ejcatin' thar black brats, and freein' 'em, an' makin' 'em rich."
"You go to the devil"; returned Hank, as he moved away, "you're wus' nan ol' nigger, allers seein' a possum up a tree; an' taint no possum tall,—nuthin' but er skunk."
Apologists tell us as an excuse for the barbarous practice of slavery, that it was a god-like institution for the spread of the gospel of the meek and lowly carpenter's son, and that
