“You must have seen things from a bad stand-point, my friend.” “Bad as ’t was, ’t was better nor the slavery stand-pint I kum ter next. Yer’v heerd tell uv Jeff McTavish? Wall, Jeff hahd an overseer who got shot in the leg by a runaway swamp nigger, an’ so I was hired as a sort uv overseer’s mate. I warn’t brung up ter be very tender ’bout niggers, Mr. Vance; but the way niggers was treated on that air plantation was too much even for my tough stomach. I’ve seen niggers shot down dead by McTavish fur jest openin’ thar big lips to answer him when he was mad. There warn’t ten uv his slaves out uv a hunderd, that warn’t scored all up an’ down the back with marks uv the lash.”[27] “Did you whip them?” inquired Vance. “I didn’t do nothin’ else; but I did it slack, an’ McTavish he found it out, and begun jawin’ me. An’ I guv it to him back, and we hahd it thar purty steep, an’ bymeby he outs with his revolver, but I war too spry for him. I tripped him up, an’ he hahd ter ask pardon uv a mean white wunst in his life, an’ no mistake. A little tahmrin’ water, please.” Vance administered a spoonful, and the patient resumed his story. “In coorse, I hahd ter leave McTavish. Then fur five years I’d a tight time of it keepin’ wooded up. What with huntin’ and fishin’, thimble-riggin’ an’ stealin’, I got along somehow, an’ riz ter be a sort uv steamboat gambler on the Misippy. ’T was thar I fust saw you, Mr. Vance.” “On the Mississippi! When and where?” “Some fifteen yars ago, on boord the Pontiac, jest afore she blowed up.” “Indeed! I’ve no recollection of meeting you.” “Don’t yer remember Kunnle D’lancy Hyde?” “Perfectly.” “Wall, I war his shadder. He couldn’t go nowhar I didn’t foller. If he took snuff, I sneezed. If he got drunk, I staggered. Don’t yer remember a darkish, long-haired feller, he called Quattles?” “Are you that man?” exclaimed Vance, restraining his emotion. “I’m nobody else, Mr. Vance, an’ it ain’t fur nothin’ I’ve got yer here to har what I’ve ter tell. Ef I don’t stop to say I’m sorry for the mean things I done, ’taint ’cause I hain’t some shame ’bout it, but ’cause time’s short. When the Pontiac blowed up, I an’ the Kunnle (he’s ’bout as much uv a kunnle as I’m uv a bishop), we found ou’selves on that part uv the boat whar least damage was did. We was purty well corned, for we’d been drinkin’ some, but the smash-up sobered us. The Kunnle’s fust thowt was fur his niggers. Says I: ‘Let the niggers slide. We sh’ll be almighty lucky ef we keep out of hell ou’selves.’ ’T was ev’ry man for hisself, yer know.” “Were you on the forward part of the wreck?” “Yes, Mr. Vance, an’ it soon began ter sink. Poor critters, men an’ women, some scalded, some strugglin’ in the water, war cryin’ for help. The Kunnle an’ I—” “Stop a moment,” said Vance; and, drawing out paper and pencil, he made copious notes.