Abe had seen them, too. “They’re just off the slaver,” he whispered. “Smuggled in through the bayous--bet they haven’t been ashore more’n a week. Look at that pore devil that’s sick!” The auctioneer had one of the young mulatto women on the block now. He pinched her sportively, chucked her under the chin, and made some ribald remark heard only by the men just below him. Then he brought down his gavel with a thump. “Well, gents, what am I offered?” he inquired genially. “A thousand dollars as a starter wouldn’t be a bit too much for this wench. They don’t come no better built. A mite broad in the shoulders perhaps, but that’s what a good house-work nigger needs. Look her over, now. Take yo’ time. Now, who’ll offer a thousand? No? Not yet, eh? Well, start her at five hundred, then. What d’ye say? Will the tall gentleman in the fur cap make it five hundred for this prime yaller gal?” There was a titter in the crowd, but Abe remained silent and impassive while the bidding went forward. Only Tad, looking up at him sidewise, could see a hard white ridge under the tanned skin of his jaw. The girl was sold at last, and the auctioneer replaced her with the feeble old grandmother, who was poked and prodded into straightening her bent back a trifle and stepping briskly about on the block. “Now here’s one that’s a bargain,” began the loud, droning voice of the seller. “There’s three or four years of good hard work under her black hide yet. Now I’ll take a starting offer of forty dollars. Who’ll say forty?” Abe nudged the boy at his side. “Come on,” he muttered. “I can’t stand any more of this.” Once outside, the tall young river-man took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Tad,” he said, almost fiercely, “it’s all wrong--this whole slavery business--as wrong as murder. Let’s get away from that place.” He was sober and silent as they crossed Jackson Square, the old Place d’Armes of the Creoles, and it was not until they had walked up the levee for some distance and were nearing the flatboat moorings again that his old good humor returned. “Golly,” he marveled. “Aren’t they a sight? I bet ye could walk a mile on nothin’ but boats an’ never wet a toe.” They found Allen ready to set forth on his evening’s adventure. He was attired in all his finery and had his hair slicked down so that it shone. “What the Sam Hill is that on yer head?” asked Abe. “Lard?” “No,” answered Allen proudly, “that’s genuwine b’ar’s grease. I borrowed it from a Tennessee man--third boat up.” “Say, speakin’ o’ b’ars,” said Abe, “whar’s that good-fer-nothin’ Poke?” “Oh,” Allen replied, a trifle shamefacedly, “he done pulled his staple an’ walked off ’fore I could ketch him. He was clear up on the levee an’ headin’ west, last sight I had of him.” Abe looked at him with withering scorn. “You must ha’ taken a lot o’ care o’ the boat,” said he. “It’s a durn wonder the pork an’ provisions didn’t climb out o’ the hold an’ walk off, too.”