“Can you do gardenin’, you feller?” asked Peter.
“Oui, oui—un peu,” replied the youth, who happened to be French, but understood English.
“None ob your wee-wees an’ poo-poos to me. Can’t you speak English?”
“Oui, yes, I gardin ver’ leetle.”
“Jus’ so. Das de man for us, massa, if you won’t hab de oder. I likes de look ob ’im. I don’t t’ink he’ll be hard on de wittles, an’ he’s so t’in dat he won’t puspire much when he works in de sun in summer. Do buy him, massa.”
But “massa” would not buy him, and looked hard for some time at our hero.
“I see how it am,” said the negro, growing sulky. “You set your heart on dat useless ijit. Do come away, massa, it ’ud break my heart to lib wid sich a feller.”
This seemed to clinch the matter, for the Moor purchased the objectionable slave, ordered Peter the Great to bring him along, and left the market-place.
“Didn’t I tell you I’s de greatest hyperkrite as ever was born?” said Peter, in a low voice, when sufficiently far in rear to prevent being overheard by his master.
“You certainly did,” replied Foster, who felt something almost like satisfaction at this change in his fate; “you are the most perfect hypocrite that I ever came across, and I am not sorry for it. Only I hope you won’t deceive your friends.”