“I hope that all has gone well?” Foster ventured to ask as the Moor dismounted.
“All well. Send Peter to me immediately,” he replied, and, without another word, hurried into the house.
Calling another slave and handing over the smoking horse to him, Foster ran to the kitchen.
“Peter, you’re—”
“Wanted ’meeditly—yes, yes—I knows dat. What a t’ing it is to be in’spensible to anybody! I don’t know how he’ll eber git along widout me.”
Saying which he hurried away, leaving the middy to do the honours of the house to the sailor.
“I s’pose, sir, you haven’t a notion what sort o’ plans that nigger has got in his head?” asked the latter.
“Not the least idea. All I know is that he is a very clever fellow and never seems very confident about anything without good reason.”
“Well, whatever he’s a-goin’ to do, I hope he’ll look sharp about it, for poor Miss Sommers’s fate and the lives o’ my mates, to say nothin’ of my own, is hangin’ at this moment on a hair—so to speak,” returned the sailor, as he carefully scraped up and consumed the very last grain of the savoury mess, murmuring, as he did so, that it was out o’ sight the wery best blow-out he’d had since he enjoyed his last Christmas dinner in old England.
“Will you have some more?” asked the sympathetic middy.