“Well, you are a greater fool than I took you for,” said Osman, in whom contempt was quickly taking the place of anger.
“I s’pose I is, massa. An’ I s’pose it am part ob my foolishness to be lookin’ arter dis yar gal—but den, you see, I lubs Ben-Ahmed, so—”
“Well, well, Peter, I believe you mean well—”
“I’s sure I does, Massa Osman!”
“Don’t interrupt me, you black villain! Can’t you see that if Hester’s father is a Bagnio slave there is no chance of her having found refuge with him?”
“Das true, massa. I do s’pose you’s right. I’s a born ijit altogidder. But, you know, when a man gits off de scent ob a t’ing, anyt’ing dat looks de least bit like a clue should be follered up. An’ dere’s no sayin’ what might come ob seein’ de fadder—for we’s off de scent entirely jist now.”
“There’s little doubt of that, Peter,” said Osman, pausing, and looking meditatively at the ground.
“Moreober,” suggested the negro, “when a man wid a cleber head an’ a purswavis tongue like you tackles a t’ing, it’s bery strange indeed if not’ing comes ob it.”
“Well, you may be right after all,” returned the Moor slowly. “I will go and see this father. At all events it can do no harm.”
“None whateber, massa. An’ I better run back and send Ali arter you.”