“Stop one minute, Byfield. Let us see whether we can get any more rum.”
The excuse appeared reasonable to the jack in office, and he disappeared.
“Boy, tell Billy Pitt I want him.”
Billy Pitt had turned in, but was soon roused out of his hammock, and made his appearance at the berth door, with only his shirt on that he was sleeping in.
“You want me, Massa Bruce?”
“Billy, my beau, you know everything. We sent for you to tell us what’s the meaning of a repartee?”
“Repartee, sir—repartee!—stop a bit—Eh—I tell you, sir. Suppose you call me dam nigger—then I call you one dam dirty white-livered son of a b—; dat a repartee, sir.”
“Capital, Billy—you shall be a bishop. But Billy, has your master got any rum in his cabin?”
“Which massa, sir? Massa Courtenay, or Massa Doctor?”
“Oh! Courtenay, to be sure. The surgeon never has any.”