“Dat, Mars’r Jacobs? dat am what am called de dug-out.”
“Wal, yer fool, don’t yer s’pose I know what a dug-out air? I’ve made more of ’em than yer black skin is years old. But I want ter know what it’s doin’ hyar, and who it belongs ter?”
“Mars’r Jacobs, dis niggah’s de igneramus on de subjec’,” he replied, idly tossing bits of sticks into the black water.
“How in thunder, then, did ye know the sign, the signal for them fellers over there?” indicating the island with his thumb.
“Wha—wha—golly, Mars’r Jacobs! am dey ober dare?” stuttered the negro, in perfect astonishment.
“You bet they air! and you giv ’em a signal,” declared Sol, sternly. The negro never lost his self-possession.
“Signal! golly, Mars’r Jacobs, I’se de fr’end ob de gang.”
“What gang? d’ye call them a gang? dum me ef it ain’t sootable.”
Walter here interposed. “For God’s sake, let us be going! where is the trail? have you lost it? Oh, heaven! this delay!”
“Yes, yes; we’ll all go on,” repeated the afflicted and stupefied parent, lighting up a moment. “We’ll all keep on.”