'Well, Right Reverend Mr. Larkin, you'll please to make yourself scarce around the plantation in future. If you come near it, just remember that we _keep dogs_, and that we use them for chasing--_niggers_.' The last word was emphasized in a way that showed he classed Larkin with the wares he dealt in. 'Yer father, young man, is a honest man, and a gentleman. He knows I'm one, if I _do_ trade in niggers; and he'll want ter see me when I want ter come.' The negro by this time had brought up the horses. 'Good evening, Mr. Larkin,' said young Hopeful, as he mounted and rode off. 'Good evenin', replied the trader, coolly, but respectfully. 'Good evenin', _Mister_ Larkin,' said the gentleman's gentleman, as he also mounted to ride off. The emphasis on the 'Mister' was too much for the trader, and taking one spring toward the darky, he laid his stout whip across his face. The scented ebony roared, and just then his horse, a high-blooded animal, reared and threw him. When he had gathered himself up, Larkin made several warm applications of his thick boot to the inexpressible part of the darky's person, and, roaring with pain, that personage made off at a gait faster than that of his runaway horse. During the affray the occupants of the ground gathered around the belligerents; but as soon as it was over, they went quietly back to 'old-sledge' 'seven-up,' 'pitch-and-toss,' 'chuck-a-luck,' and the 'turkey match.' As we walked toward the shanty, the trader said: 'Thet feller's a fool. What a chance he's throwin' away! He arn't of no more use than a rotten coon skin or a dead herrin', he arn't. All on our young bucks is jest like him. The country's going to the devil, sure;' and with this choice bit of moralizing, he entered the cabin. CHAPTER VI. The Squire was pacing to and fro in the upper end of the room, and the woman and children were seated on the low bench near the counter. Phyllis lifted her eyes to my face as I entered, with a hopeful, inquiring expression, but they fell again when the trader said: 'Thet's the gal fur ye, Mr. Kirke; the most perfectest gal in seven States; good at onything, washin', ironin', nussin', breedin'; rig'larly fotched up; worth her weight in gold; d----d if she haint.' Turning then to Preston, he exclaimed: 'Why, Squire, how ar ye?' 'Very well,' replied my friend, coolly. 'How's times?' continued the trader. 'Very well,' said Preston, in a tone which showed a decided distaste for conversation. 'Well, glad on it. I heerd ye were hard put. Glad on it, Squire.' The Squire took no further notice of him; and, turning to his property, the trader said: 'Stand up, gal, and let me show the gentleman what yer made of. Doan't look so down in the mouth, gal; this gentleman's got a friend thet'll keep ye in the style ye's fotched up ter.' Phyllis rose and made a strong effort to appear composed.