Mr, Desmit knew how to manage "niggers," and full well understood
the terrors of being "sold South." He saw his advantage in the
flush of apprehension which, before he had ceased speaking, made
the jetty face before him absolutely ashen with terror.

"Don't do dat, Marse Desmit, ef _you_ please! Don't do dat er
wid Nimbus! Mind now, Mahs'r, I'se got a wife an' babies."

"So you have, and I know you don't want to leave them."

"No more I don't, Mahs'r," earnestly.

"And you need not if you'll do as I want you to. See here, Nimbus,
if you'll do this I will promise that you and your family never
shall be separated, and I'll give you fifty dollars now and a
hundred dollars when you come back, if you'll just keep those other
fool-niggers from trying--mind' I say _trying_--to run away and
so getting shot. There's no such thing as getting to the Yankees,
and it would be a heap worse for them if they did, but you know
they _are_ such fools they might try it and get killed--which
would serve them right, only I should have to bear the loss."

"All right, Mahs'r, I do the best I can," said Nimbus.

"That's right," said the master.

"Here are fifty dollars," and he handed him a Confederate bill of
that denomination (gold value at that time, $3.21).