Trudge. Damme, what a flashy fellow I shall seem in the city! I'll get her a white boy to bring up the tea-kettle. Then I'll teach you to write and dress hair.
Wows. You great man in your country?
Trudge. Oh yes, a very great man. I'm head clerk of the counting-house, and first valet-de-chambre of the dressing-room. I pounce parchments, powder hair, black shoes, ink paper, shave beards, and mend pens. But hold! I had forgot one material point—you ar'n't married, I hope?
Wows. No: you be my chum-chum!
Trudge. So I will. It's best, however, to be sure of her being single; for Indian husbands are not quite so complaisant as English ones, and the vulgar dogs might think of looking a little after their spouses. But you have had a lover or two in your time; eh, Wowski?
Wows. Oh, iss—great many—I tell you.
DUETT.
Wows. Wampum, Swampum, Yanko, Lanko, Nanko, Pownatowski,
Black men—plenty—twenty—fight for me,
White man, woo you true?