“That was afore he began to grasp it, sir. He’s got it now. You can see now; eh, darkie?”
“Bri’sh sailor kill Massa Huggin, no kill poor niggah,” cried the black.
“There, sir, what did I say?” cried Tom. “British tar’s the niggers’ friend, eh, what’s your name?”
The black sprang up and executed two or three steps of what he meant most probably for a triumphal dance.
“Steady, my lad, or you’ll have one of them stick-in-a-brick pretty little foots of yours through the bottom planks of the boat.”
Plop! went the black, letting himself down, not upon his feet, but upon his knees, and laying his head between the sailor’s feet he caught one by the ankle, raised it and began to plant it upon his woolly head.
“What game does he call that, sir?” cried Tom, in astonishment.
“He’s following up your style of teaching by an object-lesson, Tom,” cried the middy merrily. “It’s to show you he’s your slave and friend for ever.”
“Ho!” ejaculated the big sailor. “That’s it, is it? Well, that’ll do, darkie; we understand one another; but recklect this, you arn’t civilised enough yet for object-lessons. Here, what are you up to now?”
For the black had shuffled upon his knees to the side of the boat, to hold his hands to the sides of his capacious mouth, while he sent forth a cry wonderfully like the blast given trumpet-like through a conch shell to call slaves to plantation work in the fields.