He's not one of your new negroes,
who think themselves as good as white men, and want to run the
government. Jerry knows his place,--he is respectful, humble, obedient,
and content with the face and place assigned to him by nature."
"Yes, he's one of the best of 'em," sneered McBane. "He'll call any man
'master' for a quarter, or 'God' for half a dollar; for a dollar he'll
grovel at your feet, and for a cast-off coat you can buy an option on
his immortal soul,--if he has one! I've handled niggers for ten years,
and I know 'em from the ground up. They're all alike,--they're a scrub
race, an affliction to the country, and the quicker we're rid of 'em
all the better."
Carteret had nothing to say by way of dissent. McBane's sentiments, in
their last analysis, were much the same as his, though he would have
expressed them less brutally. "The negro," observed the general,
daintily flicking the ash from his cigar, "is all right in his place and
very useful to the community. We lived on his labor for quite a long
time, and lived very well. Nevertheless we are better off without
slavery, for we can get more out of the free negro, and with less
responsibility. I really do not see how we could get along without the
negroes. If they were all like Jerry, we'd have no trouble with them."
Having procured the drinks, Jerry, the momentary subject of the race
discussion which goes on eternally in the South, was making his way back
across the street, somewhat disturbed in mind.
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