To avoid the suspicion of being a
spy, I resolved to put a few questions too. I found myself at the
establishment where those named in the advertisement which had drawn me
thither were to be disposed of. A pile of handbills--each containing an
exact copy of the advertisement, and a French translation--was lying on
the platform. Taking one up, I observed the name of "Squires, a
carpenter." Assuming all the confidence I could muster, I said, "Which
is Squires?" "I'm here, sir." "You are a carpenter, are you not?" "Yes,
sir," (with a very polite bow). "And what can you do?" "I can trim a
house, sir, from top to bottom." "Can you make a panelled door?" "Yes,
Sir." "Sash windows?" "Yes, sir." "A staircase?" "Yes, sir." I gave a
wise and dignified nod, and passed on to another groupe. In my
progress, I found by one of the platforms a middle-aged black woman,
and a mulatto girl of perhaps eighteen crouching by her side. "Are you
related to each other?" I said. "No, sir." "Have you lived long in the
city?" I said to the younger. "About two years, sir; but I was 'raised'
in South Carolina." "And why does your owner sell you?" "Because I
cannot cut--she wants a cutter--I can only sew.
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