“Ho! Neepeelootambo, go take these gentlemen round about the village, and let them see all that is to be seen.”
“Yes, massa.”
“And they’ve got something to say to you about going to sea—would you like to go?”
The negro grinned, and as his mouth was of the largest possible size, it is not exaggeration to say that the grin extended from ear to ear, but he made no other reply.
“Well, please yourself. You’re a free man—you may do as you choose.”
Neepeelootambo, who was almost naked, having only a small piece of cloth wrapped round his waist and loins, grinned again, displaying a double row of teeth worthy of a shark in so doing, and led his new friends from the house.
“Now,” said Tim Rokens, turning to the negro, and pointing along the shore, “we’ll go along this way and jaw the matter over. Business first, and pleasure, if ye can get it, arterwards—them’s my notions, Nip—Nip—Nippi—what’s your name?”
“Coo Tumble, I think,” suggested Briant.
“Ay, Nippiloo Bumble—wot a jaw-breaker! so git along, old boy.”
The negro, who was by no means an “old boy,” but a stalwart man in the prime of life, stepped out, and as they walked along, both Rokens and Briant did their best to persuade him to ship on board the Red Eric, but without success. They were somewhat surprised as well as chagrined, having been led to expect that the man would consent at once. But no alluring pictures of the delights of seafaring life, or the pleasures and excitements of the whale-fishery, had the least effect on their sable companion. Even sundry shrewd hints, thrown out by Phil Briant, that “the steward had always command o’ the wittles, and that his assistant would only have to help himself when convanient,” failed to move him.