As soon as the steamer would leave the wharf, and was fairly on the bosom of the broad Mississippi, the speculator would call his servant Pompey to him, and instruct him as to getting the slaves ready for the market. If any of the blacks looked as if they were older than they were advertised to be, it was Pompey’s business to fit them for the day of sale. Pomp, as he was usually called by the trader, was of real negro blood, and would often say, when alluding to himself, “Dis nigger am no counterfeit, he is de ginuine artikle. Dis chile is none of your haf-and-haf, dere is no bogus about him.” Pompey was of low stature, round face, and, like most of his race, had a set of teeth, which, for whiteness and beauty, could not be surpassed; his eyes were large, lips thick, and hair short and woolly. Pomp had been with Walker so long, and seen so much of buying and selling of his fellow-creatures, that he appeared perfectly indifferent to the heart-rending scenes which daily occurred in his presence. Such is the force of habit:-- “Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, That to be hated, needs but to be seen; But seen too oft, familiar with its face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.” Before reaching the place of destination, Pompey would pick out the older portion and say, “I is de chap dat is to get you ready for de Orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. How old is you?” addressing himself to a man that showed some age. “Ef I live to see next corn-plantin’ time, I’ll be forty.” “Dat may be,” replied Pompey, “but now you is only thirty years old; dat’s what marser says you is to be.” “I know I is mo’ dan dat,” responded the man. “I can’t help nuffin’ ’bout dat,” returned Pompey; “but when you get in de market, an’ any one ax you how old you is, an’ you tell um you is forty, massa will tie you up, an’ when he is done whippin’ you, you’ll be glad to say you’s only thirty.” “Well den, I reckon I is only thirty,” said the slave. “What is your name?” asked Pompey of another man in the group. “Jeems,” was the response. “Oh! Uncle Jim, is it?” “Yes.” “Den you muss’ hab all dem gray whiskers shaved off, and dem gray hairs plucked out of your head. De fack is, you’s got ole too quick.” This was all said by Pompey in a manner which showed that he knew his business. “How ole is you?” asked Pompey of a tall, strong-looking man. “I am twenty-nine, nex’ Christmas Eve,” said the man. “What’s your name?” “My name is Tobias,” replied the slave. “Tobias!” ejaculated Pompey, with a sneer, that told that he was ready to show his brief authority. “Now you’s puttin’ on airs. Your name is Toby, an’ why can’t you tell the truf? Remember, now, dat you is twenty-three years ole; an’ afore you goes in de market your face muss’ be greased; fer I see you’s one of dem kind o’ ashy niggers, an’ a little grease will make your face look black an’ slick, an’ make you look younger.”