“Not a bit of that, ole fellur! ’Sure ye the nigger’s a prince, and my passenger—nothing more or less.”
“S’help you gott, ish it so?”
“So help me that!” emphatically replied the skipper. “It’s just as I’ve told ye, Mister Jessuron.”
“Blesh my soul!—a passenger, you shay?”
“Yes; and he’s paid his passage, too—like a prince, as he is.”
“But what’s hish business here in Shamaica?”
“Ah! that’s altogether a kewrious story, Mister Jessuron. You’ll hardly guess his bizness, I reckon?”
“Lesh hear it, friend Showler.”
“Well, then, the story air this: ’Bout twelve months ago an army o’ Mandingoes attacked the town of Old Foota-toro, and, ’mong other plunder, carried off one o’ his daughters—own sister to the young fellur you see there. They sold her to a West India trader; who, in course, brought the girl over here to some o’ the islands; which one ain’t known. Old Foota-toro, like the rest o’ ’em, thinks the slaves are all fetched to one place; and as he’s half beside himself ’bout the loss of this gurl—she war his favourite, and a sort of a court belle among ’em—he’s sent the brother to search her out, and get her back from whoever hez purchased her on this side. There’s the hul story for you.”
The expression that had been gathering on the countenance of the Jew, while this relation was being made to him, indicated something more than a common interest in the tale—something beyond mere curiosity. At the same time, he seemed as if trying to conceal any outward sign of emotion, by preserving, as much as possible, the rigidity of his features.