"Who dem is? why your own cosin—your own flesh and blood—your oncle, God bless him—him children dem is, all—ay, every one on dem."
"And who is their mamma?" said I—"Not you, ma'am?"
"Me—oh dear, de poor boy don't know noting about him own relation—No—I is Sally Frenche, daughter of old Terrence Frenche, your oncle dat was die five year ago—he who leave all his money to his broder, Mr Latom Frenche. I is his only daughter, and your cosin, and kind fader he was to me."
"Well, kinswoman, I am glad to see you; but are these really my cousins? and again I ask, who is their mamma?"
"Ha, ha, ha—you really know noting, none at all. Dere mamma, as you call him, is dead lang time; but come here—come here—dem is Teemoty—hold up your head, you poppy dag—and Peeta, all two Massa Latom sons—bote your own cosin, I no tell you?"
"And that pretty young lady—who is she?"
"Ha, ha, ha—Oh dear, oh dear!—why, him is Miss Daroty, dere sister."
"And a devilish pretty girl she is, let me tell you. Why, Dorothy, give me a kiss, my fair cousin." And as I gave her a hearty smack, she dropped me a low curtsy.
"Tank you, cosin Benjamin."
Our friend the skipper was all this time taking his cargo on board with great industry, only stealing a passing squint at us now and then; and I was beginning to think it was high time to put in my oar also, lest I should go without my meal, when a great bustle was heard in the street—first a trampling as of a squadron of dragoons, then the rattling and grinding of carriage wheels through the sandy roads, and a loud gabbling of negroes. Presently some one whistled loud and shrill on his fingers, and a voice called out—