"Well! I reckon how folks is gettin' tenderish, now a' days. Who'd thought the major had such touchy kind a' feelins? Anything wrong just about yer goggler?" interrupts Romescos, giving the vender a quizzical look, and a "half-way wink." Then, setting his slouch hat on an extra poise, he contorts his face into a dozen grimaces. "Keep conscience down, and strike up trade," he says, very coolly, drawing a large piece of tobacco from his breast-pocket and filling his mouth to its utmost capacity. "Feelings are over all things," responds the sheriff, who stands by, and will speak for the vender, who is less accustomed to speaking for himself. "Feelings bring up recollections of things one never thought of before,--of the happiest days of our happiest home. 'Tain't much, no, nothing at all, to sell regular black and coloured property; but there's a sort of cross-grained mythology about the business when it comes to selling such clear grain as this." The vender relieves the honourable sheriff from all further display of sympathy, by saying that he feels the truth of all the honourable and learned gentleman has said, "which has 'most made the inward virtue of his heart come right up." He leans over the desk, extends his hand, helps himself to a generous piece of Romescos' tobacco. Romescos rejoins in a subdued voice-"He thinks a man what loves dimes like the major cannot be modest in nigger business, because modesty ain't trade commodity. It cannot be; the man who thinks of such nonsense should sell out-should go north and join the humane society. Folks are all saints, he feels sure, down north yander; wouldn't sell nigger property;--they only send south right smart preachers to keep up the dignity of the institution; to do the peculiar religion of the very peculiar institution. No objection to that; nor hain't no objection to their feelin' bad about the poor niggers, so long as they like our cash and take our cotton. That's where the pin's drove in; while it hangs they wouldn't be bad friends with us for the world." "You may, Mr. Romescos, suspend your remarks," says the vender, looking indignant, as he thrusts his right hand into his bosom, and attempts a word of introduction. Romescos must have his last word; he never says die while he has a word at hand. "The major's love must be credited, gentlemen; he's a modest auctioneer,--a gentleman what don't feel just right when white property's for sale," he whispers, sarcastically.