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- 630
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:57.722Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 568
- text
- CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH A VARIETY OF CHARACTERS APPEAR.
In the forward part of the boat, not the least attractive object, for a
time, was a grotesque negro cripple, in tow-cloth attire and an old
coal-sifter of a tamborine in his hand, who, owing to something wrong
about his legs, was, in effect, cut down to the stature of a
Newfoundland dog; his knotted black fleece and good-natured, honest
black face rubbing against the upper part of people's thighs as he made
shift to shuffle about, making music, such as it was, and raising a
smile even from the gravest. It was curious to see him, out of his very
deformity, indigence, and houselessness, so cheerily endured, raising
mirth in some of that crowd, whose own purses, hearths, hearts, all
their possessions, sound limbs included, could not make gay.
"What is your name, old boy?" said a purple-faced drover, putting his
large purple hand on the cripple's bushy wool, as if it were the curled
forehead of a black steer.
"Der Black Guinea dey calls me, sar."
"And who is your master, Guinea?"
"Oh sar, I am der dog widout massa."
"A free dog, eh? Well, on your account, I'm sorry for that, Guinea. Dogs
without masters fare hard."
"So dey do, sar; so dey do. But you see, sar, dese here legs? What
ge'mman want to own dese here legs?"
"But where do you live?"
"All 'long shore, sar; dough now. I'se going to see brodder at der
landing; but chiefly I libs in dey city."
"St. Louis, ah? Where do you sleep there of nights?"
"On der floor of der good baker's oven, sar."
"In an oven? whose, pray? What baker, I should like to know, bakes such
black bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. Who is
that too charitable baker, pray?"
"Dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his
head.
"The sun is the baker, eh?"
"Yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie
when he sleeps out on der pabements o' nights."
"But that must be in the summer only, old boy. How about winter, when
the cold Cossacks come clattering and jingling? How about winter, old
boy?"
"Den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, I tell you, sar. Oh sar, oh!
don't speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver,
shuffling off into the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black
sheep nudging itself a cozy berth in the heart of the white flock.
- title
- Chunk 1