“A fine young Mulatto gal’d be just your pint of Ale I’d wager, well tonight you’re in luck, damme ’f you’re not.” “Not in the Market,” replies Dixon, as he imagines, kindly. “Ho!” drawing back in feign’d Surprize, “what’s this, not in the market, how then may I even begin to educate you, Sir, or should I say, Friend, upon this Topick? The news, Friend, being that all are in the Market,— however regrettably,— for ev’ryone wants a slave, at least one, to call his own. . . .” “Sooner or later,” Dixon far too brightly, “— a Slave must kill his Master. It is one of the Laws of Springs.” The
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