“Yes, yo’ will, fo’ sho; but will yo’ do it fo’ true? Dat’s wot I wan’ to know,” Wilet said, with unfeeling irony.
“Now, chile, yo’ oughtn’ fo’ to take yo’ ole ’panion up so short dat a-way,” he complained.
“’Deed, so I oughtn’; but, fac’ is, we’s bof been penned up yere in dis islan’ long ob dis aggrawatin’ young marster tell we’s bof gettin’ Ole Sam inter us. Leastways, I know I is,” Wilet confessed.
But the end of their trial drew near.
One fine morning, near the last of November, as Hanson stood on the brow of the crest, in front of the Mansion House, with his spyglass in his hand, he sighted his pretty yacht making directly for the island.
As soon as he had satisfactorily identified her as his own craft he hastened into the house, quickly gathered his outlying “traps” together, and stuffed them into his valise, rang for ’Rusalem, and ordered him to take it down to the hall, with his umbrella, rug, pistol box, cigar case, and other effects. His trunk had been packed for several days, but it must wait for stronger muscles than Hanson’s own or old ’Rusalem’s, or both united, to move its weight down the stairs.
“Gwine away, young marse?” inquired the old man in a tone that he tried his best to make regretful, as he stood, laden like a hall hat-tree, with many goods and chattels.
“Yes. Didn’t you see that sail coming down the bay? That’s my yacht. She is coming for me. I am going off by her to-day.”
“’Deed, I’s moughty sorry to year yo’ say dat, young marse.”
“You old hypocrite!” laughed Hanson, who was in the best of humor at the near approach of his deliverance from captivity on the isle. “You know very well that you are glad to get rid of me.”