"Why, Sally Frenche—Sally—where the devil are you, and all your people, Sally?"
"Massa Jacob Twig, sure as can be," cried Sally, and again the hysterical laugh seemed to carry her beyond herself. "All my friend come on me at one time. What shall me Sally do?—Teemoty, tell Parot-toe for kill de kidd, and de two capon, and de wile dock, dem [anglice, wild-duck], and—and—and—oh, tell him for kill every ting him can lay him ogly paw upon."
"Den," quoth Timothy with a grin, "I shall keep out of de way, misses."
"Sally"—shouted the same impatient voice from the street again.
"Coming, Massa Jacob—Oh, dear!—ha, ha, ha!"—and as some one now entered the dark piazza, she ran out, and stumbled against him; and knocking his hat off, in her flourishing, she fairly clasped her arms round the person's neck for support during her violent and extraordinary cachinnations. "Oh, Massa Jacob, sweet Massa Jacob, I so glad to see you."
"Why, old lady, you appear so, certainly; but come, come, you must be bewitched," said the stranger, shaking her off. "Do gather your wits about you, and desire your people to see my horses cared for; and get us some supper, do you hear?"—the words in Italics pronounced with a strange emphasis, and a very peculiar accent, as if they had been twisted out angrily from between the compressed lips.
Here the speaker caught my eye: he bowed.
"Good evening, sir. I hope I am not disturbing you, gentlemen."
"Not in the least," said I. "We are strangers just landed from the brig that came in this evening; and as our hostess and I here happen, to my great surprise, to be relations, her joy has shoved her a little off her balance, as you see?"
"Balance!" said the person addressed, with a good-natured smile—"Sally Frenche was never very famous for keeping her balance."