"Well, he's a nigger! there's the long and short of it. Nobody here'd
object to his working in this place, providing he was a runner, or an
errand-boy, or anything that it's right and proper for a nigger to be;
but to have him sitting in that office, writing letters for the boss,
and going over the books, and superintending the accounts of the
fellows, so that he knows just what they get on Saturday nights, and
being as fine as a fiddle, is what the boys won't stand; and they swear
they'll leave, every man of 'em, unless he has his walking
papers,--double-quick too."

"Very well; let them. There are other workmen, good as they, in this
city of New York."

"Hold on, sir! let me say my say first. There are seven hundred men
working in this place: the most of 'em have worked here a long while.
Good work, good pay. There ain't a man of 'em but likes Mr. Surrey, and
would be sorry to lose the place; so, if they won't bear it, there ain't
any that will. Wait a bit! I ain't through yet."

"Go on,"--quietly enough spoken, but the mouth shook under its silky
fringe, and a fiery spot burned on either cheek.

"All right. Well, sir, I know all about Franklin. He's a bright one,
smart enough to stock a lot of us with brains and have some to spare; he
don't interfere with us, and does his work well, too, I reckon,--though
that's neither here nor there, nor none of our business if the boss is
satisfied; and he looks like a gentleman, and acts like one, there's no
denying that! and as for his skin,--well!" a smile breaking over his
good-looking face, "his skin's quite as white as mine now, anyway,"