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"The beef, Mr. Savage, will answer, I dare say, but you and I know it is tough."

"Why, yes, Capt'n, it is; but then it is so d--- cheap, you know?"

"I'll think of it, Mr. Savage, yes, I will," and the Captain put his hands in deep in his pantaloons pockets.

"Think of it!"

"You know one wants a little time to think of the matter. But I'll make you an offer. You say there are three or four barrels?"

"Yes, I should think so." And Savage counted them over three or four times on his fingers to be sure of it. "Yes, there are three, certain," said he -- and after a pause he added, "I won't swear but there's a trifle more."

"Well, Savage, I'll take the lot on six months at six dollars."

"Oh, ho! Captain. Hang your 'six.' You know it's dog-cheap at seven. Take it at seven, and feed 'em on it till they're fat as bucks. The Board will like it, I know. Fact is, you took the gang fifty dollars under, and every body knows it. Now you must buy cheap, and buy the right sort, or you'll come out sold, eh? I want to help you all I can -- call it seven and it's yours, eh?"

"Savage, you are a little heavy on me. I want the meat, but seven is not cheap for it. No. You say there are three barrels -- I wish there warn't but two, now I do, on my honor. I'll tell you. Savage, what I'll do -- give me two barrels, 'A, I,' at seven, and keep the balance to yourself."

"Pshaw, now Capt'n, what's two barrels of beef in your family? Ha! ha! ha! You want the entire lot. I can't sell A, I, and keep the other. Now that wouldn't do at all."

"Well, I say. Savage, I'll take the lot at six fifty, six months."

"Six fifty," soliloquized the other, "six fifty, too confounded low, too bad, tremendous discount -- can't, can't stand it. It's a bad spec, I vow -- six f-i-f-t-y -- w-h-e-w" --

"Well," interrupted Captain Bunce, "what do you say, Savage; it's all I'll give you for the grizzly stuff if you ponder over it for a month. What say you?"

"You shall have it -- yes -- let it go. Take it, Bunce, and feed your folks on it till they're as strong as stags. Fact is, they will draw heavy on you if you don't buy cheap. Board think you are too easy with them, and will run behind if you keep them too well. You shall have the beef."

"Agreed," says Bunce, "four barrels at the outside?"

"One, two, three, four -- there's certainly four, I don't swear to the barrels," and Savage counted over his fingers again and again. "But more or less, take it at your own offer, six fifty, six months."

"I'll take it," said Captain Bunce.

"And now," said the second selectman, "you know these poor devils will die off pretty fast, any way, so you'd better get the doctor to call once in a while, and take a little blood from some of them, and give a little mercury and ipecac, and paregoric or rhubarb. It will look humane. And so," said he in a whisper, "now and then call in Parson Rowland or Rector Evans to give the folks a religious Bible-talk. It will have a grand effect. Captain. Every body. Haddock, and all, will feel satisfied that you do every thing in your power, for both body and soul of the wretches. Esq. Ben and I think you do too much for them now, and you had better be careful not to overfeed them -- as you have done sometimes -- because. Captain, you can't afford to be too generous."

After this Mr. Savage left, and Captain Bunce fell to ruminating over his past conduct towards the paupers. He eventually became rather sober and melancholy, a little absent-minded, and curt in his manners, insomuch that the folks noticed it, and made sundry comments on his actions.

"He is thinking of poor Harnden, I think," said the widow, "of his sorrowful death, and I hope it will be blessed to him."

"More likely he is thinking of his own sins, and is justly alarmed," said Alanson Boyce, the State pauper, who was sustained at this institution according to the statute law of the State, at a sum "not exceeding one dollar" per week. Alanson, whatever he once had been -- and that we shall have time to speak of by-and-bye -- was now a forlorn being, impotent, poor to the last degree, who, in his poverty, wandering here and there, fell into the hands of the authorities of Crampton, and he became a State charge. When he dies, his funeral charges, which the common law of the States fixes at six dollars -- not exceeding that, and as much less as you please -- will go into the bill against the Commonwealth.

"The Captain's had seas of trouble," said colored Bill, one of the paupers, who worked a little in the fields, cut up wood at the door, took some care of the cows, horses, and young cattle; and when moving about was seen bare-headed, and often bare-footed, under all skies, and in all seasons. His red flannel sleeves cropped out at his elbows, and at every other convenient loop-hole; and when he was without a coat, his cord suspenders showed the service they rendered his patched and tattered breeches.

Bill was a clever, simple person, of a decided color, being a regular importation from Africa -- a West India slave, belonging to Colonel Rathburn. When the Colonel came to America, and settled in a romantic, beautiful spot in Crampton, Bill accompanied him, and had his freedom given him -- poor soul! -- as though he were not entitled to it, all the Colonel Rathburns in the country notwithstanding -- all the laws and customs of men and nations to the contrary notwithstanding: his freedom given him! Who gave it? GOD, HIS MAKER. Who took it away -- Colonel Bathhurn? Yes, Colonel Rathburn bought him, soul and body, and worked him in the West Indies, and brought him to America, and there he also conferred on him here the honor of freedom! So Bill having two good titles to liberty -- viz., one on the part of his Maker, and the other on the part of Colonel Rathburn -- was a man of some consequence. He lived in the family till the Colonel died, and until his wife died and the children had spent the estate. Two of them died in great want and disgrace. Bill was their chief helper for a long time, fairly earning money by day's work to support them in their great destitution. He was now old and feeble. His hair was thin and gray. He wore a serious, solemn look, and said but few words. He could hoe a little, pick up stones, cut a little brush for the fire, wait on Mrs. Bunce and the family, (and all white people are fond of having a negro do chores for them, because negroes are very deferential, and so well seem to know their inferior position!) But he is old, is rather stiff, often cold, of little real use, of little personal comfort. Bill may not last long. There's many a worse man than he. He is never hateful, selfish, or clamorous; never in any body's way; never sports with the unfortunate. He really does to others all the good he can, knowing from his own experience that this is a "troublous world." Bill speaks kindly and sorrowfully to poor reduced white people, for he knows that they must suffer much to be brought down from an easy and a high position in life to such a state of want as is indicated by the poor-house.