“Nodt. Bumper-Bumper. P-U-M-P-ER—Bumper!”
Jupe scratched his woolly thatch. This was getting too much for him.
“P-U-M-P-E-R spells Pumper, chile,” he said.
“Dots vot I saidt idt, aind’t it? Bumper—Bumbernick. Dot’s my name, aind’t idt?”
“Say, lookah hyah, Massa Bumper, is you all crazy or am I?” demanded Jupe.
“Vos dot you say? I am grazy?” bellowed Heiny Pumpernick. He dropped a little wickerwork satchel he carried and doubled up his fists.
“I been adtletic feller alretty yet,” he shouted. “You bed my life you no comes making der funs by me, py chiminy, black feller!”
“Was dat? Who yo’ all calls black fellers—you—you—yaller-headed Dutchman,” ejaculated Jupe, thoroughly angry in his turn.
Now there is nothing on earth better calculated to arouse a German’s ire than to call him a Dutchman, and the same is the case when a negro is addressed as a “black fellow” or a “nigger.” Both the German youth and old Jupe were now fighting mad.
“I calls idt to you, black fellers,” sputtered out young Dill, doubling up his plump fists. “I’m an adtletic feller, I pet you mein lifes. You calls me Mister Dill oder I pust you vun py der nose.”