“U’m come, rum!” was all he would say ever since he had been taken over by my father with the other belongings of the plantation; and, as he was an old “hand,” the former proprietor related, and had always been similarly indulged with a quartern of rum at mid-day as far back as he could recollect, old Pompey—and precious old he must have been by this reckoning—had evidently grown into the habit, so that it was part of himself.
Entering the house through one of the low window-less windows which opened out on to the verandah, like the ports in the side of a ship—ventilation being everything in the tropics and closed doors and shut-up rooms unheard of, as everybody was free to walk in and out of the different apartments just as they pleased—I soon brought out a case-bottle from the sideboard where it stood handy for the purpose. Then, filling the old darkey’s footless wine-glass, which he held with a remarkably steady hand considering his age, he tossed off the contents without drawing breath, the fiery liquor disappearing down his throat with a sort of gurgling “gluck, gluck,” as if it had been decanted into the capacious orifice, Pompey not even winking once during the operation.
“Tank you, Mass’ Tom,” said he, when he had sucked in the last drop; when, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stalked off across the terrace again towards the stable to fetch his cutlass to cut the guinea-grass for the horses, according to his usual habit at this time of day. This Jake well knew, by the bye, when he said he thought he would be able to return from his mission before the old fellow should have started, Pompey being as regular as clockwork in his movements, carrying out his daily routine most systematically.
I did not expect to see him again until later on in the afternoon on his return from the mountain at the back of the house, laden with a bale of provender for the stable, which he had charge of; but, what was my surprise a few minutes afterwards, to see him hurrying up again to the house, without his customary companion the cutlass and in a state of great excitement most unaccountable in one generally so phlegmatic.
“Hullo, Pompey! what’s the matter now?” I called out as he began to ascend the steps leading up to the terrace, his boots coming down with a heavy stamp on the marble surface. He was a most peculiar old fellow; for, unlike again most of the negroes, who only wear any foot covering on Sundays, when they torture themselves horribly by squeezing their spreading toes into patent leather pumps if they can get them by hook or by crook, the old darkey invariably stalked about in a tall pair of Wellington boots that made him walk as gingerly as a cat with its paws in walnut shells.
“Hey, Mass’ Tom, look smart,” he sang out in response. “Um big ’guana down by de stable; come quick an’ bring ’tick an’ we kill him togedder!”
An iguana? This was something to make one excited; for, harmless though the reptile is, one does not come across one everyday. Besides, it is capital eating, tasting just like a chicken, and that of the tenderest: you could not tell the difference between the two when well cooked.
Catching up a thick stick, I was after Pompey in a minute, forgetting alike the heat of the sun’s rays in the open—although but a short period before I had been forced to retreat under the shade of the verandah—and my anxious watch for Jake with news of the mail steamer, about whose delay I had been so impatient.
I soon overtook the darkey, who never could make much headway in his boots. They were so big for him that I believe his feet used to have a quiet walk inside them on their own account!
“Where’s the ’guana?” I said.