“You black baboon!” shouted the colonel, when able to speak.
“Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel,” said Quashy, with a deprecatory air, “’skuse me. I’s on’y habin’ a stroll in de gardin an’ come here kite by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an’ nebber mind me. I’s on’y a nigger.”
Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity.
“Shake hands with him, father. He’s only a nigger, as he says, but he’s one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that I ever had to do with.”
“You’s bery good, Miss—a’most as good as Sooz’n.”
“Oh, well, have it all your own way,” cried the colonel, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro’s hand heartily; “I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you’d better see to having covers laid for three—or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy will honour us with—”
“T’ankee, kurnel, you’s bery kind, but I’s got a prebious engagement.”
“A previous engagement, eh?” repeated the colonel, much tickled with the excuse.
“Yes, kurnel; got to ’tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you’ll allow me to stan’ behind his chair an’ wait, I’ll be much pleased to listen to all you says, an’ put in a word now an’ den if you chooses.”
And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of the Incas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind. Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would be almost an insult to your understanding.