“Come here, sir!”
“Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar,” replied Moonshine, rubbing away at the knifeboard—“my face no shine more dan your white skull widout hair.”
“I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now they are all gone.—Hairs; what should I do with heirs when I’ve nothing to leave,” continued Cockle, addressing me—“hairs are like rats, that quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom—but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel angry—the tip of my nose is red already.”
“Come directly, Massa Cockle.”
Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance.
“You call me, sar?”
“What’s the use of calling you, you black rascal?”
“Now sar, dat not fair—you say to me, Moonshine, always do one thing first—so I ’bey order and finish knives—dat ting done, I come and ’bey next order.”
“Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers.”
Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the room, grinning at me.