After that my admiration for Nick Temple increased greatly, whether excited by his courage and presence of mind, or his ability to imitate men and women and creatures, I know not. One of our amusements, I recall, was to go to the Congo's cabin to see him fall on his face, until Mr. Mason put a stop to it. The clergyman let us know that we were encouraging idolatry, and he himself took the chief in hand.
Another incident comes to me from those bygone days. The fear of negro insurrections at the neighboring plantations being temporarily lulled, the gentry began to pluck up courage for their usual amusements. There were to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick was determined to go. Had he not determined that I should go, all would have been well. The evening before he came upon his mother in the garden. Strange to say, she was in a gracious mood and alone.
“Come and kiss me, Nick,” she said. “Now, what do you want?”
“I want to go to the races,” he said.
“You have your pony. You can follow the coach.”
“David is to ride the pony,” said Nick, generously. “May I go in the coach?”
“No,” she said, “there is no room for you.”
Nicholas flared up. “Harry Riddle is going in the coach. I don't see why you can't take me sometimes. You like him better than me.”
The lady flushed very red.
“How dare you, Nick!” she cried angrily. “What has Mr. Mason been putting into your head?”