"Oh, sor! Don't kill me, sor! I wasn't hafter spyin' on ye, sor! I was only afraid ye'd forget to bring me the morphine, sor! I—"
The creature opened his eyes, which had gone closed, likely in anticipation of the dreaded gunshot, that for some reason was now due to put a short stop to his miserable existence. He had taken me for Duran, it was plain, and the opening of his bleared eyes had shown him his mistake. Undersized, thin-lipped, and apparently toothless, was this slight specimen of a being; and his mouth, eyes, head, shoulders, and limbs twitched and jerked in abominable fashion. Indeed he fairly danced on the ground like those jigging toys that are set going by winding a bit of clock-work. I afterwards learned that it was only at times of great emotion that this extreme agitation of all the muscles on his slight bones were set in motion; but there was scarce a minute of the day that he was not at some form of grimace or contortion.
Taking courage of this being's evident fear, I demanded, "Who are you?"
"My nyme is Handy Awkins," he replied. By which I came to know he meant—"Andy Hawkins."
"I don't know 'ow you came 'ere," he said, the contortions of his body quieting considerably, "but I sye, ye won't tell the boss ye sawr me down 'ere?"
"On condition you won't tell 'the boss' you saw me anywhere, I won't tell him I saw you down here," I bargained.
His writhings now were those of joy. And he tried to set into a smile that slit of a mouth of his.
"Yer 'and on it!" he cried. "We're on the syme side o' the fence, ain't we? An' we'll be great Bobs together, you an' I, if ever we get out o' this 'ell of a 'ole—I don't care if you are a nigger. Eh Tommy?—I'll tell ye, I'm the only white man in this 'ere part o' the world, that I am, 'ceptin' the boss, and—" here he whispered the news—"'ee's only painted black, to fool the likes o' you."