“Only that Massr Vagh’n am a-goin’ away in the mornin’.”
“Blesh my soul!” exclaimed the Jew, suddenly stopping in his tracks, and turning towards the mulatta with a look of troubled surprise. “Blesh my soul! You don’t shay that, dosh you?”
“Dey say so at the Buff, Massr Jess’ron. Besides, I know m’self he’s a-goin’. I help pack up him shirts in de trabbelin’ valise. He’s a-goin’ a hossaback.”
“But where, wench? where?” gasped the Jew, in hurried and anxious speech.
“Dey say to ’Panish Town—odder side ob de Island.”
“Spanish Town! ach!” cried the penn-keeper, in a tone betokening that the words had conveyed some very unwelcome intelligence. “Spanish Town! S’help me, it ish! I knew it! I knew it! ach!”
And, as he repeated the aspirated ejaculation, he struck his umbrella fiercely into the ground—as if to render more emphatic the chagrin that had been communicated by the answer.
Only for a few seconds did he make pause upon the spot.
“Come on!” cried he to his companion, hurriedly moving off from the tree; “come on, wench! If that’sh the case, ash you shay, there’sh no time to be losht—not a minute, s’help me!”
And with this elegant reflection, he ended the brief dialogue, and strode swiftly and silently onward across the glade—the woman following close upon his heels.