“I nebber ’fuse a good offer, massa. You may count on dis chile, sure!”
“Now go and send up dinner,” said Ratcliff, confident he had secured one confederate who would not stick at trifles.
The dinner was brought up hot and carefully served.
“Curse me but this does credit to old Semmes,” soliloquized Ratcliff, as course after course came on. “The wines, too, are not to be impeached. I wonder if his Burgundy is equal to his Champagne.”
Ratcliff pressed his foot on the brass mushroom under the table and rang the bell.
“A bottle of Burgundy, Sam.”
The mulatto brought on a bottle, and drew the cork gently and skilfully, so as not to shake the precious contents.
“Ah! this will do,” said Ratcliff; “it must be of the famous vintage of eighteen hundred and—confound the date! Sam, you sly nigger, try a glass of this.”
“Thank you, sir, I never drink.”
“Nigger, you lie! Hand me that goblet.”