"Solomon," said the captain one afternoon, as the old negro sat on the heel of the bowsprit, enjoying a cigar, "how old are you?"
"Golly, massa, dunno. How much be two hunder?"
"As much again as one hundred."
"Den s'pose I be two hunder."
"No, you ain't two hundred, or one hundred. What makes you think you are so old?"
"'Cause eberybody say, when come to de vessel, 'Dere come de old bumboat-man.' I go 'long de street: dey say, 'Dere go ole Quambo.' Eberybody gone I knowed; cap'ns all dead, vessels all dead, too; one, two, tree massas—all be dead. Last massa, he be sick; he say, 'Gib old Quambo his freedom; he ole nigger, all wear out; only fit eat plantin.' Dat one die; his chillen all die. Ole Quambo live yet, run de bumboat, buy de slush, sell plantin, bananas, eat fish Sunday. Yah, yah, yah! S'pose Gorra mighty forget all about ole Quambo. Yah, yah, yah!"
"How long have you been a bumboat-man?"
"Dunno, massa cap'n. S'pose half hunder year."
"O, pshaw! no, you haven't half of it. Captains that follow this trade don't live long, and perhaps the vessels you used to know are not worn out, but have gone to some other island. Do you board all the vessels that come here?"
"Yes, massa, ebery one. Dey lets me hab de slush. All de cap'n know ole Quambo."