“‘Who steals my purse, steals trash,’” spouted Price.
“’Cause you never have money, Mr Price,” cried Billy, interrupting him.
“Silence, sir,—‘But he who filches from me my good name, robs me of that—of that—’”
“Rob you of what, sar?”
“Silence, sir,” again cried Price—“‘robs me of that—’ what is it?—that damned black thief has put it out of my head—”
“I not the thief, sar—Massa Price, you always forget end of your story.”
“I’ll make an end of you directly, sir, if you’re not off.”
“No! don’t kill Billy,” observed Courtenay; “it’s bad enough to have murdered Shakespeare. Well, but now, it’s my opinion, that we ought to employ this fellow—and take the advice that has been given to us in this book.”
Courtenay’s proposal was assented to, and on his return, Hommajee Baba was installed in office.
The next morning, Seymour, Courtenay, and Macallan went on shore to meet an old acquaintance of the latter, who had called upon him on his arrival. By his advice they left the ship before the sun had risen, that they might be enabled to walk about, and view the town and its environs, without being incommoded by the heat. They reached the long plain close to the sea, upon which the admiral and many others, according to the custom of the English inhabitants, were residing in capacious tents; not such tents as have been seen in England, but impervious to the heat and rain, covering a large extent of ground, divided into several apartments, and furnished like any other residence. The broad expanse of ocean, which met their view, was unruffled, and the beach was lined with hundreds, standing on their carpets, spread upon the sand, with their faces turned toward the east. As the sun rose in splendour above the horizon, they all prostrated themselves in mute adoration, and continued in that position until his disk had cleared the water’s edge; they then rose, and throwing a few flowers into the rippling wave, folded up their carpets and departed.