g man of dark and
sinister aspect, whom they greeted as Simon Legree. Ewing heard Eliza's
despairing cry, "Merciful Heavens, the river is choked with ice!" above
the deep baying of bloodhounds that issued from half a dozen able
throats. The newcomer was obliging enough to scowl and demand fiercely,
"Tom, you black rascal, ain't you mine, body and soul?"

A fair-haired youth at the table, with the face of an overfed Cupid,
responded pleadingly: "No--no, Massa! Mah body may b'long to yo' but mah
soul to de good Lawd who made it!"

"Crack! Crack! Crack! Take that, you black hound, and that, and that!"
Uncle Tom cringed under the blows of an imaginary lash, and Legree
seated himself at the long table. A bearded man at the head promptly
became little Eva, with a piping voice. "Uncle Tom, dear Uncle Tom, I
fear I am going to die in the last act."

The faithful slave gulped at his claret and water and replied tearfully,
"Dar, dar, Miss Eba, yo' bre'k dis pore ole man's heart!"

"And, dear Uncle Tom, remember that the colored quartet will slink in
and sing 'Rock of Ages' while I am dying on a camp bed in the parlor.
Think of that, you black hound!"

"Indeed, that is what I am apprehending, Miss St. Clair," returned Uncle
Tom, this time in polished accents and with marked urbanity. "And you
are doubtless aware that I shall have to be present and listen to it.
Come, then, little one! If you must die, come with me into the back yard
where the quartet can't find us, and I will feed you to the nice hungry
bloodhounds. They've had nothing since tea."

Ewing listened, aghast. He had once gone with Ben in Durango to see
"Uncle Tom's Cabin," and both of them had wept at its heartrending
crisis. It embarrassed him now to hear its pathos blasphemed,
embarrassed him because he felt a sort of shamed mirth. He was glad that
Ben was not by.

Piersoll and his publisher still discussed literature. Layton was now
setting forth the superior state of the latter-day author over those of
the past.

"Those old fellows had no market--publishers were a sleepy lot. Think
what could have been done with 'Paradise Lost,' illustrated by Hulston
with about fifty half tones and marginal decorations, and an elegant
binding, properly advertised with testimonials from clergymen and
leading actresses and senators and prominent college presidents. I tell
you, gentlemen," he concluded, earnestly, "this is the golden age of
letters!"

This phrase unhappi