That first evening, then, the boys were in high spirits, and interchanged many jocular remarks about their situation. Solomon expressed more than usual gratification, and seemed to have a serene self-satisfaction, which was extraordinary in him. As the shades of night descended he began to illuminate the cabin. He had found some oil, and had filled the lamp which hung immediately under the skylight. It was a large one, with four argand burners, and threw a brilliant lustre over the scene. Beneath this bright glow the boys sat at the evening repast, spread by the hands of Solomon, where they found the usual variety of dishes, and also not a few of quite a novel and original character. To play the part of Robinson Crusoe under such circumstances as these was not at all unpleasant.
Among all the boys, then, there prevailed a spirit of joyousness, and old Solomon’s mood was certainly not out of accord with that of his young companions. For Bart found him alone in his solitary galley, rubbing his thighs in front of a roasting fire, and chuckling audibly to himself.
“Tell ye what, Massa Bart,” was his exclamation as he looked up at his smiling visitor, “dis yer am high ole times, an no mistake; dis yer ole nigger habn’t felt so happy an habn’t had sich a strornary feelin of skewrity, ebber since he was your age. Let dat dar Ant’lope keep way’s long ebber she kin. I don want to see her again. I want to take up my bode in dis yer galley, and bid farewell to ebery feah, an wipe my weepin eyes.”
“Well, that’s a curious fancy too,” said Bart, in some surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’d like to live here.”
“Would so; dat dar’s jest wat I mean, an it’s wat’d zactly suit dis yer ole man, an no mistake now—would so.”
“Well,” said Bart, sympathetically, “it’s not a bad place just now, as long as the weather’s fine, though how it might be in case of a blow, I confess I have my suspicions.”
“O, you nebber mind de blow. Dar’s blows dat are a heap wuss dan de wind. How would you like blows on yer head, an backbone, an ribs, from a broomstick, or a shobbel, or a stick ob cord-wood, or a red-hot iron poker? Dem’s blows as is blows, mind I tell you! Tell you what, when you come to git blows, like dat ar, you’ll begin to hab a realizin sense ob what blows is possible for to be.”
“Why, Solomon, how very feelingly you speak!”
“Feelinly! Ony wait till you’ve felt ober your head an shoulders what she’s giben me.”
“She? Who?”