He stiffened up and looked hard at me, and standing near, I bowed until my head almost touched the table. I had called him Bob, a familiarity that I don't think I had ever before ventured upon, and it fell like a mallet. When I straightened up, he bowed to me and not a word was spoken on the subject of my neglect to put "Mars." before his name. "You ask in what way is his mind pinched. I might answer by saying in every way, but I'll specify one. He believes that he's serving God when he puts tar and feathers on a man who has ventured to express his opinion." "But in this respect is he more narrow than others I could mention?" I asked, for I could take issue with him, argue and even quarrel with him without treading upon ground too oozy with familiarity. "He believes that slavery is a God-ordained institution. Don't you?" I shall never forget the look he gave me. I stood with my arms folded looking down upon his handsome face, his Greek head. A lock of hair had fallen upon his brow, and he slowly put it back, still looking at me, and there was a strange, thrilling music in his voice when he spoke: "Did I teach your mind to eat that it might gulp such food?" "You gave me the bill of fare and were generous enough to invite me to help myself," was the answer I made. "But I didn't tell you to eat filth." "And filth I did not eat, but I swallowed many a mouthful of reason." "But did any one of those mouthfuls tell you that I considered slavery a God-ordained institution?" "Not you especially, but you belong to a caste." "Still I am no fool. Who gave the slaves to Rome? Conquest. What led to conquest? Physical superiority. And wasn't there a grandeur in that? And is not a grandeur almost a sacred thing?" Now here was an argument and it might have been prolonged, but at that moment there came a tap at the door. Master cried an invitation to come in, and Mr. Clem entered. "What are you boys talking so loud about?" he inquired, taking a chair and putting his feet upon the table. "Didn't know but you might be trying to swap horses." "An exchange of night mares," Bob replied, reaching over and moving his inkstand. "That's all right, but do you make him stand up all the time?" Mr. Clem asked, nodding at me. Bob laughed. "He can sit down if he wants to." "Well, then, please do," Mr. Clem said, looking at a chair and motioning toward me. "It makes my legs hurt to see you standing there." I sat down and he continued: "I noticed that our old preacher rode pretty good stock over here." "You didn't see him when he rode up," said Bob.