'Yes, thet kind o' native; and them's the sort, too. They make all-fired smart spec'lators. I knows a dozen on 'em, thet hev made thar pile, and haint older'n I am, nother.' 'Is it possible! Yankees in this business?' 'Yes, lots on 'em. Some on yer big folks up ter York and Bostin are in it deep; but they go the 'portin' line, gin'rally, and thet--d--d if _I'd_ do it, anyhow.' 'Well, about the woman. None of these will do; are they all you have?' 'No, I've got one more, but I've sort o' 'lotted har ter a young feller down ter Orleans. He told me ter git him jest sech a gal. She's 'most white, and brought up tender like, and them kind is high prized, ye knows.' 'Yes, I know; but where is she--let me see her?' 'She's in the store;' and rising, he led the way to the shanty. When we arrived at the part of the ground where the marksmen were stationed, we found an altercation going on between Tom and a young planter. It appeared that the young man had paid for a shot, and insisted on his body servant taking his place in the lists. To that Tom, and the stout yeomen who had entered for the turkey, objected, on account of the yellow man's station and complexion. The young gentleman was dressed in the highest style of fashion, and, though not more than nineteen, was evidently a 'blood' of 'the very first water.' The body servant was a good-looking quadroon, and sported an enormous diamond pin and a heavy gold watch chain. In his sleek beaver hat, and nicely-brushed suit of black broadcloth, he looked a much better-dressed gentleman than any one on the ground. As we approached, Tom, every pimple on his red face swelling with virtuous indignation, was delivering himself of the following harangue: 'We doan't put ourselfs on a futtin' with niggers, Mr. Gaston. We doan't keer if they do b'long ter kid-gloved 'ristocrats like ye is; they karn't come in har, no how! Ye'd better go home. Ye orter be in better business then prowlin' round shootin' matches, with yer scented, bedevilled-up buck niggers. Go home, and wash the smell out o' yer cloes. Yer d----d muskmelon (Tom's word for musk) makes ye smell jest like hurt skunks; and ye ar skunks, clar through ter the innards. Whew! Clar eoeut, I tell ye!' The young man's face reddened. The blood of the chivalry was rising. He replied: 'Keep a civil tongue in your head, you thieving scoundrel; if you don't, the next time I catch you trading with my nigs, I'll see you get a hundred lashes; d----d if I don't.' Tom bade him go to a very warm latitude, and denied trading with negroes. 'You lie, you sneaking whelp; you've got the marks on your back now, for dealing with Pritchett's.'