“S’pose we lay for some man, then,” said Tim. “Seems to me you might turn your knowledge of scrappin’ to some account.”
“I’ve a notion to practise a bit on you, you speckled beauty,” said I, angrily. “It’s your foolishness that got us in this fix.”
“Here comes a feller your size. Try him.”
I turned and followed his gaze, and there, sure enough, loomed a huge black conch with a bucketful of sour-sops in either hand, striding up the path. Hung over his shoulder was a long blacksnake whip, such as overseers sometimes used upon refractory slaves.
“Hi, there, uncle,” I cried, “I would like to buy some sops,” and we both stepped forth into view.
The fellow’s ugly visage wrinkled, and he set his buckets upon the ground.
“Who is yo’?” he asked, sourly.
“We? Why, we are visitors, friends of Mr. Curtis,” I said. “We left our clothes over there at the inlet, and some son of a polecat ran off with them. Give us some sops and give us a shift. We’ll pay you well for it.”
“Whar’s yo’ munny?” he growled.
“In our clothes. Sink you for a fool nigger, you don’t suppose we have pockets in our skins, do you?”