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family not very far off; but he had never called to see them, and never intended to go near them. He made another remark that shocked me so much that I determined to leave him to his fate. He told me that he had a brother, the property of a Mr. Pitcher, who lived in the town of Liberty. I mounted my horse and went there. I soon saw Pitcher. He was sitting in the public room of the hotel, with his feet against the dirty stove. His talk was of bullocks and blooded horses, with which, in aPitcher. He was sitting in the public room of the hotel, with his feet against the dirty stove. His talk was of bullocks and blooded horses, with which, in all their varieties — with their genealogical history, and the various faux pas of their different branches — and other interesting equestrian information, he was as familiar as the thorough bred cockney is with the scandal of the Green Room, or the bed-room mysteries of the leading houses of the British aristocracy. As I rode a splendid steed, I was soon, to all outward appearance, as deeply interested in horse-history as he was. From horses to slaves the transition was easy. He had come from