"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,
'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger, _I_
al'ays says, but dat's 'ca'se it's mine, o' course."

"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?"

Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:

"Oh, _I_ kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy
couldn't, not to save his life."

Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's fingerprints
for his collection--right hand and left--on a couple of his glass strips;
then labeled and dated them, and took the "records" of both children, and
labeled and dated them also.

Two months later, on the third of September, he took this trio of finger
marks again. He liked to have a "series," two or three "takings" at
intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed at
intervals of several years.

The next day--that is to say, on the fourth of September--something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money--which is a way of saying that this was not a new
thing, but had happened before. In truth, it had happened three times
before. Driscoll's patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane man
toward slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward
the erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly there
was a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his
Negros. Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before him.