Several who had clustered near me, moved off to a respectful distance.

One or two left the bar-room, and murmured, "better let the small-pox nigger go." I was then asked what was the name of the slave-trader.

Without premeditation, I said, "John Henderson." "John Henderson!" said one of my captors, "I knew him; I took up a yaller boy for him about two years ago, and got fifty dollars.

He passed out with a gang about that time, and the boy ran away from him at Frederickstown.
What kind of a man was he ?" At a venture, I gave a description of him.

"Yes," said he, "that is the man." By this time, all the gossippers had cleared the coast; our friend, "Jake Shouster," had also gone back to his bench to finish his custom work, after having "lost nearly the whole day, trotting about with a nigger tied," as I heard his wife say as she called him home to his dinner.