“I’m offered two hunderd dollars for Number 12,” exclaimed the auctioneer, putting his hand on the little girl’s head. “If there’s any good judge here of figger an’ face, he won’t see this article sacrificed for such a trifle.” “Two twenty-five,” said Tibbs. The gentleman who had descended from the barouche here drew nearer, and examined the form and features of the little girl with a closer scrutiny. “Two fifty,” said he, as the result of his inspection. Tibbs, irritated by the competition, made his bid three hundred. “Four hundred!” said the man with the riding-whip. “Five hundred!” retorted Tibbs, ejecting the words with a vicious snort. “Six hundred,” returned his competitor, with perfect nonchalance. “Seven hundred and fifty,” shrieked Tibbs. “A thousand,” said the other, playing with his whip. Tibbs did not venture further. Mortified and angry, he turned away, and consoled himself with an enormous cut of tobacco. “Cash takes it,” said the successful bidder, putting his finger to his lips by way of caution to the auctioneer, and then beckoning him to come down. Ripper exchanged a few words with him in a whisper, and told his assistant to put the little girl with her bundle into the barouche, and throw a carriage-shawl over her. As the barouche drove off, Hyde asked, “Who is he?” “Cash,” replied Ripper. “Didn’t you hear? I reckon you see more of overseers than of planters. You’ve done amazin’ well, Colonel, gittin’ such a price fur that little concern.” “Yes,” said Hyde; “Mr. Cash is a high-tone one, that’s a fak. I should know him agin ’mong a thousand.” The company dispersed, the auctioneer settled with his customers, and Hyde went to find Quattles, and give him the jackal’s share of the spoils. Let us follow the barouche. Leaving the business streets, it rolled on till, in about a quarter of an hour, it stopped before a respectable brick house, on the door of which was the sign, “Mrs. Gentry’s Seminary for Young Ladies.” Here the gentleman got out and rang the bell. “Is Mrs. Gentry at home?” “Yes, sir. Walk in. I will take your card.” He was ushered into a parlor. In five minutes the lady appeared,—a tall, erect person with prominent features, a sallow complexion, and dry puffs of iron-gray hair parted over her forehead. A Southern judge’s daughter and a widow, Mrs. Gentry kept one of the best private schools in the city. On seeing the name of Carberry Ratcliff on the card, which Tarquin, the colored servant, had handed to her, she went with alacrity to her mirror, and, after a little pranking, descended to greet her distinguished visitor. “Perhaps you have heard of me before,” began Mr. Ratcliff. “Often, sir. Be seated,” said the lady, charmed at the idea of having a visit from the lord of a thousand slaves. “I have in my barouche, madam, a little girl I wish to leave with you. She is my property, and I want her well taken care of. Can you receive her?”