“What’s the matter with that fellow?” said I to the same negro, who continued close to me, notwithstanding Swinburne’s stick.
“Eh! call him Sam Slack, massa. He ab um tic tic fit.”
And such was apparently the case. “Stop, me cure him;” and he snatched the stick out of Swinburne’s hand, and running up to the man, who continued to roll on the beach, commenced belabouring him without mercy.
“Eh, Sambo!” cried he at last, quite out of breath, “you no better yet,—try again—”
He recommenced, until at last the man got up and ran away as fast as he could. Now, whether the man was shamming or whether it was real tic tic, or epileptic fit, I know not, but I never heard of such a cure for it before. I threw the fellow half a pictareen, as much for the amusement he had offered me as to get rid of him.
“Tanky, massa; now man-of-war man, here de tick for you again to keep off all de dam niggers.” So saying, he handed the stick to Swinburne, made a polite bow, and departed. We were, however, soon surrounded by others, particularly some dingy ladies, with baskets of fruit, and who, as they said, “sell ebery ting.”
I perceived that my sailors were very fond of cocoa-nut milk, which, being a harmless beverage, I did not object to their purchasing from these ladies, who had chiefly cocoa-nuts in their baskets.
As I had never tasted it, I asked them what it was, and bought a cocoa-nut. I selected the largest.
“No, massa, dat not good for you. Better one for buccra officer.”
I then selected another, but the same objection was made—“No, massa, dis very fine milk. Very good for de ’tomac.”