"Dat boat wan't no punk, massa, and it was wuf two dollars in good money," replied the colored man, his eyes brightening, and his expression of cunning becoming more intense, when he realized the possibility of being paid for his loss.
"If you give me the information I desire, I will pay for the boat," added Christy, who proposed to do so out of his own pocket, for his father was a millionaire of several degrees, and the son had very nearly made a fortune out of the prizes, from which he had received an officer's share.
"Tank you, massa; I'm a poor man, and I git my livin' gwine fishin' in dat boat you done stove."
"What is your name, my man?"
"Quimp, sar; and dat's de short for Quimple," replied the colored person of this name.
"Where do you live?"
"Ober on de shor dar, in de woods."
"How deep is the water inside of these keys, Quimp?" asked Christy, pointing to the long, narrow islands which lined the south-easterly side of the bay.
"Not much water inside dem keys dar, sar," replied the boatman, looking off in the other direction.
"But there are deep places in there, I am very sure."