“Well, yes, sir, I was a bit rough to him; but if I hadn’t been he’d have got away.”
“Now then, let me try. Here, my lad, I want your master.”
“Massa, sah?” cried the shivering prisoner. “Yes, sah. Massa, sah!” And as he spoke eagerly he made a snatch at the midshipman’s ankle, caught it between both hands, and raising the lad’s foot placed it quickly upon his forehead.
“Hullo! What do you mean by that?”
“Massa! Massa now, sah. Poor niggah massa.”
“Oh, bother! Nonsense!” cried Murray. “No, no. Where’s your master, Mr Allen?”
“Massa Allen, sah. Good massa, sah. Sick man; go die soon.”
“Good master?”
“Yes, sah! Good massa, sick bad, sah. Die, sah.”
“Well, where is he—Massa Allen?”