“You’ve brought de basket ob wittle, Cynthy?”
“Yes, Chakra—there.”
“Golly! um’s berry good—guinea-hen an’ plenty ob vegable fo’ de pepperpot. Anything fo’ drink, gal? Habent forgot daat, a hope? De drink am da mose partickla ob all.”
“I have not forgotten it, Chakra. There’s a bottle of rum. You’ll find it in the bottom of the basket. I had a deal trouble steal it.”
“Who you ’teal ’im from?”
“Why, master: who else? He have grown berry partickler of late—carries all de keys himself; and won’t let us coloured folk go near de storeroom, as if we were all teevin’ cats!”
“Nebba mind—nebba you mind, Cynthy—maybe Chakra watch him by’m-bye. Wa, now!” added he, drawing the bottle of rum out of the basket, and holding it up to the light. “De buckra preacher he say dat ’tolen water am sweet. A ’pose dat ’tolen rum folla de same excepshun. A see ef um do.”
So saying, the negro drew out the stopper; raised the bottle to his lips; and buried the neck up to the swell between his capacious jaws.
A series of “clucks” proclaimed the passage of the liquor over his palate; and not until he had swallowed half a pint of the fiery fluid, did he withdraw the neck of the bottle from between his teeth.
“Whugh!” he exclaimed, with an aspirate that resembled the snort of a startled hog. “Whugh!” he repeated, stroking his abdomen with his huge paw. “De buckra preacher may talk ’bout him ’tolen water, but gib me de ’tolen rum. You good gal, Cynthy—you berry good gal, fo’ fetch ole Chakra dis nice basket o’ wittle—he sometime berry hungry—he need um all.”