“Who yo’ callin’ a fool nigger?” and he drew his whip over his shoulder. “Don’t yo’ call me no names, yo’ po’ white trash. I’ll cut yo’ toe ribbons, dat I will.”
Before either of us could spring aside, the lash flew out and caught first one and then the other of us on our naked bodies. The pain was awful. Tim dashed up the path instantly without waiting for a second dose, and the huge conch sprang after him, leaving me behind.
Away they went, the lash flying out like the tongue of a snake, landing every time upon that part of poor Tim’s anatomy which is said to be equally discourteous to present to either friend or enemy. And every time it landed, it brought forth a yell. I stood grinning for an instant, in spite of the pain I suffered, and then the sense of outraged decency getting the best of my risibilities, I launched myself full speed in pursuit.
Away we went up that trail, Tim’s speckled body leading the way, his red hair streaming in the wind, and close behind him rushed that big black conch with his cruel whip, his bare feet not heeding in the least a thousand things that pricked and pained the soles of mine, as I tore along in his wake.
“Hi, hi, go it, Jackson!” howled a black fellow who stood in the path and watched the race.
An upper cut with my left fist did much to abate his zeal, and left him lying upon his back, while with undiminished speed I went ahead. Soon the white coral street of the town showed a bit in front through the bushes, and in another minute we were fairly into the main street of Nassau.
I was now thoroughly aroused, and forgot entirely my predicament, so intent was I upon reaching that rascal’s back. I called hoarsely for Tim to stop, but, either because I was a bit winded or our pace was too fast to allow the sound of my voice to reach him, he heeded it not at all, but held his pace under all sail.
White men now sprang from doorways to see what had happened, as the yells came flying down the thoroughfare, and many women immodestly halted to view the spectacle. I don’t know how the matter would have ended had not Tim turned a corner suddenly, and plunged straight into the arms of Big Jones and Martin, who were rushing for the pavement at the sound of alarm.
The Scotchman, with rare presence of mind, made a grab at Tim’s speckled body, thinking it some peculiar breed of ape that had escaped from its keeper, and in doing so lost his drunken balance, and plunged head foremost into the stomach of the pursuing conch, and together they rolled over into the street. Before they could disengage, I had a grip upon that conch that he will remember yet.
“Deil save us, ye cateran, what is it?” gasped the inebriated Scot, struggling to his feet. “What? You Heywood! Ye immodest heathen! Hold him, ye black feller, an’ I’ll lay the lash upon his unchaste hide.”