If the youth of America ever wish to prove that they are of a distinct race from the sable sons of Africa, their only chance is to become paragons of perfection, and give up all their wicked ways.
“Oh!” exclaimed Ailie, half amused, half frightened, as Glynn lifted her out of the boat; “oh! how funny! Don’t they look so very like as if they were all painted black?”
“Good-day to you, gentlemen,” cried the trader, as he approached the landing. “Got your foretop damaged, I see. Plenty of sticks here to mend it. Be glad to assist you in any way I can. Was away in the woods when you arrived, else I’d have come to offer sooner.”
The trader, who was a tall, sallow man in a blue cotton shirt, sailor’s trousers, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, addressed himself to Glynn, whose gentlemanly manner led him to believe he was in command of the party.
“Thank you,” replied Glynn, “we’ve got a little damage—lost a good boat, too; but we’ll soon repair the mast. We have come ashore just now, however, mainly for a stroll.”
“Ay,” put in Phil Briant, who was amusing the black children—and greatly delighting himself by nodding and smiling ferociously at them, with a view to making a favourable impression on the natives of this new country. “Ay, sir, an’ sure we’ve comed to land a sick shipmate who wants to see the doctor uncommon. Have ye sich an article in these parts?”
“No, not exactly,” replied the trader, “but I do a little in that way myself; perhaps I may manage to cure him if he comes up to my house.”
“We wants a nigger too,” said Rokens, who, while the others were talking, was extremely busy filling his pipe.
At this remark the trader looked knowing.
“Oh!” he said, “that’s your game, is it? There’s your man there; I’ve nothing to do with such wares.”