“So me do,” replied Antonio quickly; “but dat no Portigeese—dat Spanaish, me ’spose.”
“What can you speak, then?” demanded Harold sternly.
“Portigeese, Arbik, Fengleesh, an’ two, tree, four, nigger lungwiches.”
It was very obvious that, whatever Antonio spoke, he spoke nothing correctly, but that was of no importance so long as the man could make himself understood. Harold therefore asked if he would join his party as interpreter, but Antonio shook his head.
“Why not man—why not?” asked Harold impatiently, for he became anxious to secure him, just in proportion as he evinced disinclination to engage.
“Speak up, Antonio, don’t be ashamed; you’ve no need to,” said Disco. “The fact is, sir, Antonio tells me that he has just bin married, an’ he don’t want to leave his wife.”
“Very natural,” observed Harold. “How long is it since you were married?”
“Von veek since I did bought her.”
“Bought her!” exclaimed Disco, with a broad grin; “may I ax wot ye paid for her?”
“Paid!” exclaimed the man, starting and opening his eyes very wide, as if the contemplation of the vast sum were too much for him; “lat me zee—me pay me vife’s pairyints sixteen yard ob cottin clothe, an’ for me’s hut four yard morer.”