“Wot’s he bin doin’?” inquired Rokens, turning to his black companion. But Rokens received no answer, for Neepeelootambo was looking on at the scene with an expression so utterly woe-begone and miserable that one would imagine he was himself suffering the rough usage he witnessed.
“Arrah! ye don’t appear to be chairful,” said Briant, laughing, as he looked in the negro’s face. “This is a quare counthrie, an’ no mistake;—it seems to be always blowin’ a gale o’ surprises. Wot’s wrong wid ye, Bumble?”
The negro groaned.
“Sure that may be a civil answer, but it’s not o’ much use. Hallo! what air they doin’ wid the poor cratur now?”
As he spoke the crowd seized the black giant by the arms and neck and hair, and dragged him away towards the village, leaving our friends in solitude.
“A very purty little scene,” remarked Phil Briant when they were out of sight; “very purty indade, av we only knowed wot it’s all about.”
If the surprise of the two sailors was great at what they had just witnessed, it was increased tenfold by the subsequent behaviour of their negro companion.
That eccentric individual suddenly checked his groans, gave vent to a long, deep sigh, and assuming a resigned expression of countenance, rose up and said— “Ho! It all ober now, massa.”
“I do believe,” remarked Rokens, looking gravely at his shipmate, “that the feller’s had an attack of the mollygrumbles, an’s got better all of a suddint.”
“No, massa, dat not it. But me willin’ to go wid you now to de sea.”