“For any sake don’t open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what you mean by a ’speriment,” said the boy.
“How kin I tell what’s a ’speriment if I’m not to open my mout’?”
“Shut up, you nigger! an’ talk sense.”
“Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I’m to shut up? Don’t you know what a ’speriment is? Why it’s—it’s—just a ’speriment you know—a dodge.”
“If you mean a dodge, why don’t you say a dodge?” retorted Billy; “well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy’ll be shoutin’ for his grog in a minute.”
“You jus’ listen,” said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, “you jus’ take a wine-glass—de big ’un as your fadder be fond of—an’ put in ’im two teaspoonfuls o’ vinegar, one tablespoonful o’ parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o’ pepper, an’ one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an’ give ’im dat. Your fadder never take time to smell him’s grog—always toss ’im off quick.”
“Yes, an’ then he’d toss the wine-glass into my face an’ kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard,” said Billy, with a look of contempt. “No, Zulu, I don’t like your ’speriment, but you’ve put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn—”
“Yes, I often tink dat,” said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. “You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an’ I’ll learn.”
“You fetch me the wine-glass,” said the boy, sharply.
Zulu obeyed.