“Yis,” said Antonio; “she be Kambira’s moder, an’ Obo’s gran’moder—bof at once.”
This fact was, we may almost say, self-evident for Obo’s attentions and favours were distributed exclusively between Yohama and Kambira, though the latter had unquestionably the larger share.
During the course of the feast, beer was served round by the little man who had performed so deftly on the violin the previous evening.
“Drink,” said Kambira hospitably; “I am glad to see my white brothers here; drink, it will warm your hearts.”
“Ay, an’ it won’t make us drunk,” said Disco, destroying Jumbo’s peace of mind by winking and making a face at him as he raised the calabash to his lips. “Here’s long life to you, Kambira, an’ death to slavery.”
There can be no doubt that the chief and his retainers would have heartily applauded that sentiment if they had understood it, but at the moment Antonio was too deeply engaged with another calabash to take the trouble to translate it.
The beer, which was pink, and as thick as gruel, was indeed too weak to produce intoxication unless taken in very large quantities; nevertheless many of the men were so fond of it that they sometimes succeeded in taking enough to bring them to the condition which we style “fuddled.” But at that time the particular brew was nearly exhausted, so that temperance was happily the order of the day.
Having no hops in those regions, they are unable to prevent fermentation, and are therefore obliged to drink up a whole brewing as quickly as possible after it is made.
“Man, why don’t ye wash yer face?” said Disco to the little fiddler as he replenished his calabash; “it’s awful dirty.”
Jumbo laughed, of course, and the small musician, not understanding what was said, followed suit out of sympathy.