If you agree
with this idea, send him to me at once. Respectfully, P. DESMIT.
In accordance with this order Nimbus was sent on to have another
interview with his master. The latter's wishes were explained,
and he was asked if he could fulfil them. "Dunno," he answered
stolidly.
"Are you willing to try?"
"S'pect I hev ter, ennyhow, ef yer say so."
"Now, Nimbus, haven't I always been a good master to you?"
reproachfully.
No answer.
"Haven't I been kind to you always?"
"Yer made Marse War' gib me twenty licks once."
"Well, weren't you saucy, Nimbus? Wouldn't you have done that to
a nigger that called you a 'grand rascal' to your face?"
"S'pecs I would, Mahs'r."
"Of course you would. You know that very well. You've too much
sense to remember that against me now. Besides, if you are not
willing to do this I shall have to sell you South to keep you out
of the hands of the Yanks."
Mr, Desmit knew how to manage "niggers," and full well understood
the terrors of being "sold South." He saw his advantage in the
flush of apprehension which, before he had ceased speaking, made
the jetty face before him absolutely ashen with terror.
"Don't do dat, Marse Desmit, ef _you_ please! Don't do dat er
wid Nimbus! Mind now, Mahs'r, I'se got a wife an' babies."
"So you have, and I know you don't want to leave them."
"No more I don't, Mahs'r," earnestly.
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