“Well, Nippi-Boo-Tumble,” cried Tim Rokens, who in his disappointment unceremoniously contracted his name, “it’s my opinion—private opinion, mark’ee—that you’re a ass, an’ you’ll come for to repent of it.”
“Troth, Nippi-Bumble, he’s about right,” added Briant coaxingly. “Come now, avic, wot’s the raisin ye won’t go? Sure we ain’t blackguards enough to ax ye to come for to be sold; it’s all fair and above board. Why won’t ye, now?”
The negro stopped, and turning towards them, drew himself proudly up; then, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, he advanced a step and held up his forefinger to impose silence.
“You no tell what I go to say? at least, not for one, two day.”
“Niver a word, honour bright,” said Phil, in a confidential tone, while Rokens expressed the same sentiment by means of an emphatic wink and nod.
“You mus’ know,” said the negro, earnestly, “me expec’s to be made a king!”
“A wot?” exclaimed both his companions in the same breath, and very much in the same tone.
“A king.”
“Wot?” said Rokens; “d’ye mean, a ruler of this here country?”
Neepeelootambo nodded his head so violently that it was a marvel it remained on his shoulders.