FullReads

“See that he doesn’t get away,” said Browne to Bob.

“He can’t pound his corn with them things,” said Bob, pointing to the handcuffs. “Shall I get him some meal?”

“Not to-night,” said Browne. “He didn’t give me a crust to eat the first night I was on ship. Turn about’s fair play, Captain Lewis. Take him to the quarters.”

When the convict found himself manacled, his terror increased. He pulled away from Bob and approached Browne.

“Let me speak a word, master,” he began tremulously. “I’m all broke up and ruinated, anyhow. I know the devil must ‘a’ been in me the day I took you away. I’ve thought of it many a time, and I’ve said, ‘Jim Lewis, something dreadful’ll come to you for stealin’ a good little boy that way.'” Here he paused. Then he resumed in a still more broken voice: “When I was put on to a transport to come to this country I remembered you, and I says, ‘That’s what’s come of it.’ Soon as I saw that little fellow, the very picture of you the day when I coaxed you away, I says to myself, ‘O my God, I’m done fer now! I’m ruinated for a fact; I might as well be in hell as in Maryland.’ But, master, if you’ll only have just a little pity on an old man that’s all broke up and ruinated, I’ll–I’ll–be a good servant to you. I promise you, afore Almighty God. Don’t you go and be too hard on a poor ruinated old man. I’m old–seems to me I’m ten year older than I wuz afore I saw you this mornin’. I know you hate me. You’ve got strong reasons to hate me. I hate myself, and I keep sayin’ to myself, says I, ‘Jim Lewis, what an old devil you are!’ But please, master, if you won’t be too hard on me, I think I’ll be better. I can’t live long nohow. But—-“

“There, that’ll do,” said Browne.

“Please, Mr. Browne,” interposed Judy.

“Lewis, do you remember when you woolded a sailor’s head?” demanded the planter.

“I don’t know, master. I have done lots of things a little hard. Sailors are a hard lot.”

“If you’d had pity on that poor sailor when he begged for mercy, I’d have pity on you to-night But I cried over that sailor that you wouldn’t have mercy on, and now I can’t pity you a bit. You’ve made your own bed. Your turn has come.”

Saying this, Sanford Browne went into the house, while the old sea captain followed Bob in a half-palsied way round the south end of the house toward the servants’ quarters, muttering, “Well, now, Jim Lewis, you’re done fer.”

“Mr. Browne, what are you going to do with that old man?” asked Judy, with more energy than she usually showed in speaking to her husband.

“I don’t know, Judy. Something awful, I reckon.” Browne could not make up his mind to any distinct act of cruelty beyond sending the convict supperless to bed.

“I don’t like you to be so hard on an old man. I know he’s bad–as bad as can be, but that’s no reason why you should be bad.”

“I wouldn’t be bad, Judy. Just think how he sold me, like Joseph, away from my family!”

“But Joseph wasn’t really very unkind to his brothers, Mr. Browne; and you won’t be too hard on the poor old wretch, now will you?”

“Judy, I mean to make him suffer. When I think of my mother, and all she must have suffered, I haven’t a drop of pity in me. He’s got to suffer for his crimes now. That’s what he was thrown into my hands for, I reckon, Judy.”

“Then you won’t be the man you have been. Time and again you’ve bought some poor kid from a hard master like old Hoak, to save him from suffering. Now you’ll get to be hard and hateful like old Hoak yourself.”