“Who? I hashen’t told you,” rejoined the Jew, his features assuming an expression of mock surprise. “But true,” he continued, after a pause; “true, you knew he wash sick—you knew Justish Bailey wash sick, an’ not likely to get over it. Well—he hashen’t, poor man!—he’s dead and in hish coffin by thish time: he breathed hish lasht yesterdays.”
A loud and highly-aspirated “Whugh!” was the only answer made by the myal-man. The utterance was not meant to convey any melancholy impression. On the contrary, by its peculiar intonation, it indicated as much satisfaction as any amount of words could have expressed.
“It ish very shtrange,” continued the penn-keeper, in the same tone of affected simplicity; “so short a time shince Mishter Ridgely died. Two of the three shustices that sat on your trial, goot Shakra. It looksh ash if Providensh had a hand in it—it dosh!”
“Or de Dibbil, mo’ like, maybe?” rejoined Chakra, with a significant leer.
“Yesh—Gott or the Devil—one or t’other. Well, Shakra, you hash had your refenge, whichever hash helped you to it. Two of your enemies ish not likely to trouble you again; and ash for the third—”
“Nor he berry long, I’se speck’,” interrupted the negro, with a significant grin.
“What you shay?” exclaimed the Jew, in an earnest undertone. “Hash you heard anythings? Hash the wench been to see you?”
“All right ’bout her, Massr Jake.”
“Goot—she hash been?”
“Jess leab dis place ’bout quar’r ob an hour ’go.”