“Well, Mattee, how are you?” said the planter. “Where’s the piccaninny?”
“Ab um here, sar—keep im warm,” replied the woman, pointing to a roll of blanket, in which the little creature was enveloped.
“Let us see him, Mattee.”
“No, sar, too cold yet—bye bye, massa, see um; make very fine sleep now.—Suppose white piccaninny, suppose black piccaninny—all same,—like plenty sleep. Um know very well, hab plenty work to do bye and bye—sleep all dey can, when lilly.”
“But you’ll smother him,” observed Newton.
“Smoder him?—what dat—eh?—I know now massa mean, stop um breath.—No: suppose him no smoder before, no smoder now, sar. Massa,” continued the woman, turning to the planter, “no ab name for piccaninny?”
“Well, Mattee, we must find one; these gentlemen will give him a name. Come, captain, what name do you propose?”
“Suppose we christen him Snub,” replied Berecroft, winking at the rest.
“Snob! What sort a name you call dat, sar?” replied the woman, tossing up her head. “Snob! no, sar, you ’front me very much. Snob not proper name.”
“Well, then Mr Forster,” said the planter, “try if you can be more fortunate.”