"Yes," said Warner vaguely, "but who are you?"
"Sir, if you will pardon the expression I may say I am a kind of a wandering refugee hailing from Jamaica with a mission to carry the apprehensions of civilisation to the unspeakably incomprehending aboriginal inhabitants of this beatific equatorial region who are doubtless immersed in the chaotic complexity of irreligious heathenism and incondite boorishness."
Warner eyed the speaker with astonishment, feeling tired, somehow, and out of breath.
The black man saw, with obvious pleasure, the effect which his speeches had produced.
He had spoken fluently, continuously, without pause or effort. Without expression or inflexion the long unbroken flow of chosen words had rumbled off his tongue.
He cleared his throat as if about to speak again, but Warner hastily interposed.
"What is your name?"
"Joseph Johnson, sir."
"You are obviously a man of some education."
"Sir, if I may presume to express an opinion upon Your Honour's personality I would hazard the conclusion that Your Excellency is a gentleman of kindly but penetrating discernment for I received my education at the hands of the Reverend Westinghouse Wilberforce of Kingston Jamaica alas now dead of whom as the classical writer has it de mort nil ni bum I repeat sir de mort nil ni bum."