“Hee! hee!” replied Poopy.
“Humph! I thought so. But that’s an odd question of yours, Alice. What do you mean by it?”
“I mean that my papa thinks there are friends in the settlement who are enemies.”
“Does he, though? Now, that’s mysterious,” said the boy, becoming suddenly grave. “That requires to be looked to. Come, Alice, tell me all the particulars. Don’t omit anything—our lives may depend on it.”
The deeply serious manner in which Corrie said this, so impressed and solemnised the child, that she related, word for word, the brief conversation she had had with her father, and all that she had heard of the previous converse between him and Henry.
When she had concluded, Master Corrie threw a still more grave and profoundly philosophical expression into his chubby face, and asked, in a hollow tone of voice, “Your father didn’t say anything against the Grampus, did he?”
“The what?” inquired Alice.
“The Grampus—the man, at least, whom I call the Grampus, and who calls hisself Jo Bumpus.”
“I did not hear such names mentioned, but Henry spoke of a wounded nigger.”
“Ay, they’re all a set of false rascals together,” said Corrie.