“’Pose you no wash nigger white, you no mangle him white, Massa Cockle,” added Moonshine.
“The fellow’s ironing me, Bob, ar’n’t he?” said Cockle, laughing. “Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions.”
“Drink first, sar, make sure of dat,” replied Moonshine, swallowing off the brandy; “tink about it afterwards.—Eh! I ab it,” cried Moonshine, who disappeared, and Cockle and I continued in conversation over our grog, which to sailors is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four. About ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the little front garden. “There’s that fellow, Bob; what is he about?”
“Only picking a nosegay, I believe,” replied I, looking out of the window.
“The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. Stop him, Bob.”
But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was no stopping him. It was nearly an hour before he returned; and when he came in, we found that he was dressed out in his best, looking quite a dandy, and with some of his master’s finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his waistcoat.
“All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine idee; you neber ab more trouble bout Missy O’Bottom.”
“Well, let’s hear,” said Cockle.
“I dress mysel bery ’pruce, as you see, massa. I take nosegay.”
“Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you.”