“Debblish peart pony, big gun, beaver-traps, farms, houses, lots ob cows—”
“You trifle with me, do you?” demanded the captain, with a wicked smile.
Cato became nervous again.
“No, mars’r, I’se speaks de truf! De young fellah, Waltah, an’ de ole man, done sed dey’d gib me de hull t’ing—farms, cows, de houses, de hosses—”
“Oh, they are anxious, then; well, I suppose you will endeavor to earn your reward?”
“No, sar! I gits hafe ob it anyhow, an’ de other am on de job.”
“Soho! Well, you are a fine sort of fellow, Cato, to be sure. Won’t you take something?” and he drew a flask from his pocket.
The negro took it eagerly, and put it to his lips, rolling his eyes in ecstasy as the fiery liquid gurgled down his throat. Now the captain could do any thing with him.
“Now, Cato,” he continued, “you have always been a faithful fellow, and have never been sufficiently rewarded. Now if you will mislead them thoroughly—mind, thoroughly—I will give you, not foolish weapons, or land which you will never use, but money—yellow money.”
Cato’s eyes rolled. The captain went on: