"Never," replied his friend,—"took the water like a spaniel too—must be accustomed to the sea—an Alderney cow, I suppose, Twig, eh?"
This evening passed on without any thing further occurring worth recording.
Next morning, Lennox came to see me off, and gave me all his news. I was exceedingly glad to learn that the poor fellow was so happily situated, and promised to call on him the first time I came to the bay.
While lounging about the piazza before breakfast, I noticed our friend Quacco busily employed cleaning a fowling-piece.
"Whose gun is that, Quacco?"
"Massa Flamingo's, sir."
"Let me see it—a nice handy affair—Purdy, I perceive—comes to my shoulder very readily, beautifully."
"Wery clever leetle gone, for sartain, massa; but all de caps dem spoil, sir. See de powder—percossion dem call—quite moist, and useless." By this time he had fitted on one of the copper caps, and snapped the piece, but it was dumb. "I am going to fill de caps wid fresh powder, massa; but really dis percossion powder too lively, massa—only see"—and he gave a few grains of it a small tip with the shank of the bullet mould, when it instantly flashed up.
"Master Quacco," said I, "mind your hand; that is dangerous stuff. Tell Mr Flamingo to be wary also, or he will be shooting people, for it is wrong mixed, I am certain."
"Wery trang, wery trang for sartain, massa—but no fear in my hand—for I is armourer, as well as waiting gentleman—oh, ebery ting is I Quacco."