“Really, Massa Courtenay, I tought I not give you satisfaction.”
“Why so, Billy?”
“Because, sar, you never give me present—not one dollar.”
“He has you there,” said Price; “you must fork out.”
“Not a rap—the nigger had perquisites. I saw the English merchants give him a handful of dollars, before they left the vessel.”
“Ah! they real gentlemen, Massa Capon and Massa — dam um name—I forgot.”
“And what am I, then, you black thief?”
“Oh! you, sar, you very fine officer,” replied Billy, quitting the gun-room.
Courtenay did not exactly like the answer—but there was nothing to lay hold of. As usual, when displeased, he referred to his snuff-box, muttering something, in which the word “annoying” could only be distinguished.
The breeze from the windsail blew some of the snuff out of the box into the eyes of Macallan.