“Ah, massa, you no know me?”
“How the devil should I? Don’t you see it is as dark as pitch?”
“Well, massa, I will tell you; it is me, massa.”
“I make no great doubt of that; but who may you be?”
“Lord, you are de foolis person now; make me talk to him,” said the female. “Massa, never mind he, dat stupid fellow is my husband, and surely massa know me?”
“Now, my very worthy friends, I think you want to make yourselves known to me; and if so, pray have the goodness to tell me your names, that is, if I can in any way serve you.”
“To be sure you can, massa; for dat purpose I come here.”
The woman hooked the word out of his mouth. “Yes, massa, you must know me is Nancy, and dat old stupid is my husband Peter Mangrove, him who” here Peter chimed in—“Yes, massa, Peter Mangrove is de person you have de honour to address, and”—here he lowered his voice still more, although the whole dialogue from the commencement had been conducted in no higher tone than a loud whisper—“we have secured one big large canoe, near de mout of dis dam hole, which, wid your help, I tink we shall be able to launch troo de surf; and once in smoot water, den no fear but we shall run down de coast safely before de wind till we reach. St Jago.”
My heart jumped against my ribs. Here’s an unexpected chance, thought I. “But, Peter, how in the name of mumbo jumbo, came you here?”
“Why, massa, you do forget a leetle, dat I am a Creole negro, and not a naked tatooed African, whose exploits, dat is de wonderful ting him never do in him’s own country, him get embroidered and pinked in gunpowder on him breach; beside, I am a Christian gentleman like youshef; so d——n mumbo jumbo, Massa Cringle.”