“Ah! Mashter Vochan, neither ish of the shlightest ushe here in Shamaica. If you could paint a house, or a waggon, or a shopkeeper’sh sign, it would bring you more monish than to make the likeneshes of every face in the island. What saysh you to the situation of book-keeper?”
“Unfortunately, I know nothing of accounts. The very useful science of book-keeping I have not been taught.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” replied Jessuron, with an encouraging chuckle, “you ish what we, in Shamaica, call green, Mashter Vochan. You musht know that a book-keeper here hash no books to keep. He doesh not even put a pen to paper.”
“How is that, Mr Jessuron? I have heard the statement before, though I did not comprehend what was meant by it.”
“Then I musht explain, Mashter Vochan. There ish a law here which makes all proprietors of shlaves keep a white man on hish estate for every fifty blacksh. A very shilly law it ish; but it ish a law. Theesh white supernumeraries are called book-keepers: though, ash I’ve told you, they keepsh no books. Now you understand what it meansh.”
“Then, what duties do they perform?”
“Oh! that depends on circumshtances. Some look after the shlaves, and some do thish and some that. But, egad! now I think of it, Mashter Vochan, I am myshelf in need of a book-keeper. I have joosh bought a new lot of blacksh, and I musht not break the law. I am ushed to give my book-keepers fifty poundsh a-year, currenshy; but if you would be content to accept such a berth, I would make the salary—on account of your uncle—a hundred poundsh a-year. You would also be found in everything elshe. What dosh you shay, Mashter Vochan?”
This unexpected proposal on the part of the penn-keeper, caused his guest to hesitate and reflect.
Not long, however. His forlorn, homeless situation presented itself too forcibly to his mind, to keep him long in doubt as to what answer he should make.
Suffice it to say, that the offer—which to the young Englishman appeared only too generous—was accepted; and from that hour the Happy Valley became his home.