'How much is said for these prime negroes?' cried the auctioneer. Everybody knows what they are, and there's no use preaching a sermon over them. Boss Joe might do that, but _I_ can't. He can preach equal to any white man you ever hard. Come, gentlemen, start a bid. How much do you say?' 'A thousand,' said a voice in the crowd. 'Eleven hundred,' cried another. 'It's a d--d shame to bid on them, gentlemen. Boss Joe has been saving money to buy himself; and I think no white man should bid against him,' cried a man at my elbow. It was Gaston, who had just arrived on the ground. 'Thet's a fact.' 'Them's my sentiments.' 'D--n th' man thet'll bid agin a nigger.' 'Thet's so, Gaston,' echoed from all directions. 'But I yere th' darky's got a pile--some two thousan'; _thet_ gwoes 'long with him, uv course,' yelled one of the crowd. 'Of course it don't!' said young Joe, from the stand. 'He's saved about three thousand out of a commission his master allowed him; but he _gave_ that _to me_, long before my father died. It is _mine_--not _his_. I bid twelve hundred for him and his wife; and I will say to the audience, that I shall advance on whatever sum may be offered for them. So fire away, gentlemen; I ask no favors.' 'Is there any more bid for this excellent couple?' cried the auctioneer. 'It is my duty to cry them, and to tell you they're worth twice that money.' There was no more bid, and Boss Joe and Aggy were struck down at twelve hundred dollars--about two thirds their market value. 'Now, gentlemen, we will offer you the old negress, Deborah, the mother of Joe. Bring her forward!' cried the man of the hammer. Four strong negroes lifted the chair of the aged African, and bore her to the block. When the strange vehicle reached the steps, young Preston steadied it into its appropriate position, and then took a stand beside it. 'This aged lady, gentlemen, is warranted over eighty; she may be a hundred. She can't walk, but she can pray and sing to kill. How much is bid for all this piety done up in black crape?' cried the auctioneer, smiling complacently, as if conscious of saying a witty thing. Joe turned on him quickly. 'Sir, you are employed to _sell_ these people, not to sport with their feelings. Let me hear no more of this.' 'No offence, Mr. Preston. Gentlemen, how much is bid for old Deborah?' 'Five dollars,' said young Preston. The old negress, who sat nearly double, straightened up her bent form, and, looking at Joe with a sad, pleading expression, exclaimed: 'Oh, massa Joe! ole nussy'm wuth more'n dat. 'Ou woan't leff har be sole fur no sech money as dat, will 'ou, massa Joe?' 'No aunty; not if you want to bring more. I'd give your weight in gold for you;' and, turning to the auctioneer, he said: 'A hundred dollars is my bid, sir.'