I had rather, much rather, he had struck me then. I was going out in the tide again. Everything I had done was behind me and around me, and I seemed to be moving before it.
“So you’re a slaver, are you?” said Mr. Parton. “Fancy that—George Jervaile’s son in the n****r trade! Why, if he could have guessed it, he’d have shot you when he shot himself.”
Before I knew what I was doing I was out of my chair.
“Mr. Parton,” I began, “before God, Mr. Parton——”
And he was standing before me with his hand raised in a deprecating way.
“Good Lord,” he said, “don’t think I’m reproving you! Why, I admire you for it. I’d have done it myself if there was enough in it! Surely you can’t think I have any hard feelings!”
And he tapped his forehead sympathetically.
“I know the way you feel,” he said. “I
