Then taking a pistol out of the side-pocket of his mackintosh, he deliberately walked over to the other side of the deck, and examined his priming.
“Good heavens, Mr. Slick!” said I in great alarm, “what are you about?”
“I am goin’,” he said with the greatest coolness, but at the same time with equal sternness, “to bore a hole through that apple, Sir.”
“For shame! Sir,” I said. “How can you think of such a thing? Suppose you were to miss your shot, and kill that unfortunate boy?”
“I won’t suppose no such thing, Sir. I can’t miss it. I couldn’t miss it if I was to try. Hold your head steady, Jube—and if I did, it’s no great matter. The onsarcumcised Amalikite ain’t worth over three hundred dollars at the furthest, that’s a fact; and the way he’d pyson a shark ain’t no matter. Are you ready, Jube?”
“Yes, massa.”
“You shall do no such thing, Sir,” I said, seizing his arm with both my hands. “If you attempt to shoot at that apple, I shall hold no further intercourse with you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sir.”
“Ky! massa,” said Jube, “let him fire, Sar; he no hurt Jube; he no foozle de hair. I isn’t one mossel afeerd. He often do it, jist to keep him hand in, Sar. Massa most a grand shot, Sar. He take off de ear oh de squirrel so slick, he neber miss it, till he go scratchin’ his head. Let him appel hab it, massa.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Slick, “he is a Christian is Jube, he is as good as a white Britisher: same flesh, only a leetle, jist a leetle darker; same blood, only not quite so old, ain’t quite so much tarter on the bottle as a lord’s has; oh him and a Britisher is all one brother—oh by all means—
Him fader’s hope—him mudder’s joy,
Him darlin little nigger boy.