She ran to her chest, and got out the little horn box with the nail of St Francis, and looked determined to die at her post. Sorrow deposited the gun in the corner, hung down his head, and said:
“Dis here child, Massa Slick, can’t do no murder.”
“Then I must do it myself,” said I, rising and proceeding to get my rifle.
“Slick,” said the doctor, “what the devil do you mean?”
“Why,” says I, a settin’ down again, “I’ll tell you. Jesuit-priests were first seen in Spain and Portugal, where they are very fond of them. I have often eaten them there.”
“First seen in Spain and Portugal!” he replied. “You are out there—but go on.”
“There is a man,” said I, “in Yorkshire, who says his ancestor brought the first over from America, when he accompanied Cabot in his voyages, and he has one as a crest. But that is all bunkum. Cabot never saw one.”
“What in the world do you call a Jesuit-priest?”
“Why a turkey to be sure,” said I; “that’s what they call them at Madrid and Lisbon, after the Jesuits who first introduced them into Europe.”
“My goody gracious!” said Sorrow, “if that ain’t fun alive it’s a pity, that’s all.”