"About ship, then," quoth Flamingo.
"Wery good plan, wery good plan," shouted Cousin Teemoty; "but"——
"But, but, but—oh, confound your buts," roared Twig; "but what, sir?"
"Oh," said Tim, whose dignity was a little hurt, "noting, noting—no reason why massa should not return—only Carrion-crow gully dat we lef behind, will, by dis time, be twenty time more down as dis, dat all."
"And so it will—the boy is right," rejoined Jacob; "What is to be done? Stop—I see, I see."
"The deuce you do! then you have good eyes," quoth Felix.
"I say, Flamingo, pick me up a stone that I can sling, and hold your tongue; do, that's a good fellow."
"Sling? where is the Goliah you mean to attack?"
"Never you mind, Flam, but pick me up a stone that I can tie a string to, will ye?—There, you absurd creature, you have given me one as round and smooth as a cricket ball; how can I fasten a string round it?—give me a longish one, man—one shaped like a kidney-potato or your own nose, you blundering good-for-nothing—ah, that will do. Now, some string, boys—string."
Every negro carries a string of one kind or another with him in the crown of his hat, and three or four black paws were in an instant groping for Jacob Twig's hand in the dark with pieces of twine.