“Ask that question of the Indian,” put in Dirck, a little significantly.
We looked at Susquesus inquiringly, for a look always sufficed to let him comprehend us, when a tolerably plain allusion had been previously made.
“Black-man do foolish t'ing,” observed the Onondago.
“What I do, you red-skin devil?” demanded Jaap, who felt a sort of natural antipathy to all Indians, good or bad, excellent or indifferent; a feeling that the Indians repaid to his race by contempt indifferently concealed. “What I do, red-devil, ha?—dat you dares tell Masser Corny dat!”
Susquesus manifested no resentment at this strong and somewhat rude appeal; but sat as motionless as if he had not heard it. This vexed Jaap so much the more; and, my fellow being exceedingly pugnacious on all occasions that touched his pride, there might have been immediate war between the two, had I not raised a finger, at once effectually stilling the outbreak of Jacob Satanstoe's wrath.
“You should not bring such a charge against my slave, Onondago,” I said, “unless able to prove it.”
“He beat red warrior like dog.”
“What of dat!” growled Jaap, who was only half-quieted by my sign. “Who ebber hear it hurt red-skin to rope-end him?”
“Warrior back like squaw's. Blow hurt him. He never forget.”
“Well, let him remember den,” grinned the negro, showing his ivory teeth from ear to ear. “Muss was my prisoner; and what good he do me, if he let go widout punishment. I wish you tell Masser Corny dat, instead of tellin' him nonsense. When he flog me, who ebber hear me grumble?”