“Das all right; now come along—come along, you sham nigger, wid me. Has you got enuff?”
“Bustin’—all but.”
“Das good now; you follow me; do what you’s tol’; hol’ you tongue, an’ look sharp, if you don’ want your head cut off.”
“Heave ahead, cap’n; I’m your man.”
The two left the house together and took the road that led to the hill country in rear of the dwelling.
Meanwhile George Foster went to the chamber of the Moor. He found his master seated, as was his wont, with the hookah before him, but with the mouthpiece lying idly on his knee, and his forehead resting on one hand. So deeply was he absorbed in communing with his own thoughts, that he did not observe the entrance of his slave until he had been twice addressed. Then, looking up as if he had been slightly startled, he bade him sit down.
“George Foster,” he began impressively, at the same time applying a light to his hookah and puffing sedately, “you will be glad to hear that I have been successful with my suit to the Dey. God has favoured me; but a great deal yet remains to be done, and that must be done by you—else—”
He stopped here, looked pointedly at the middy, and delivered the remainder of his meaning in pufflets of smoke.
“I suppose you would say, sir, that unless it is done by me it won’t be done at all?”
To this the Moor nodded twice emphatically, and blew a thin cloud towards the ceiling.