“No, my man,” said the middy sadly. “I can’t leave my friends here. We must hold this place to the last.”
The black sank back on the littered floor and groaned.
“Poor Massa Allen!” he said.
“Lookye here, darkie,” said the big sailor; “tain’t no use to howl. What do you say to getting a good bunch of palm leaves and waiting till these slaver beggars come again, and then setting fire to the place and burning them all up together?”
“Yes, sah,” said the black sadly. “Caesar go and set fire to sugar-barrel; all burn up.”
“Bah! Take too long, darkie. Now, if you’d got a barrel o’ powder!”
“Big Massa Tom want barrel o’ powder?”
“Do I want a barrel of powder?” growled the big sailor, in a deep-toned voice full of contempt and scorn.
“Not big barrel sugar,” said the black sadly; “lilly barrel black powder, all black like niggah.”
“Here, what are you talking about, you old pitch kettle?” cried the sailor, full of animation now. “You don’t know where there’s a lilly barrel, do you?”