The moment he advanced, Jerry slipt across the room, and tried to hide behind the tongues near his wife. He was terrified to death. “Do you mean to say,” said I, “she died of going the whole hog? Was it a hog—tell me the truth?”
“Well, Massa,” said he, “I don’t know to a zact sartainty, for I was not dere when she was tooked ill,—I was at de bank at de time,—but I will take my davy it was hogs or dogs. I wont just zackly sartify which, because she was ‘mazin’ fond of both; but I will swear it was one or toder, and dat dey was cooked wid dere heads on—dat I will stificate to till I die!”
“Hogs or dogs,” said I, “whole, with their heads on—do you mean that?”
“Yes, Massa, dis here child do, of a sartainty.”
“Hogs like the pig, and dogs like the Newfoundlander at the door?”
“Oh, no, Massa, in course it don’t stand to argument ob reason it was. Oh, no, it was quadogs and quahogs—clams, you know. We calls ’em down South, for shortness, hogs and dogs. Oh, Massa, in course you knows dat—I is sure you does—you is only intendin’ on puppose to make game of dis here nigger, isn’t you?”
“You villain,” said I, “you took a rise out of me that time, at any rate. It ain’t often any feller does that, so I think you deserve a glass of the old Jamaiky for it when we go on board. Now go and shoot a Jesuit-priest if you see one.”
The gall explained the order to her mother.
“Shoot the priest?” said she, in French.
“Shoot the priest,” said Jerry; “shoot me!” And he popped down behind his wife, as if he had no objection to her receiving the ball first.