“I’m to be sold as a slave,” Foster involuntarily groaned aloud.
“Like all the rest of us,” growled a stout sailor-like man, who stood at his elbow.
Foster turned quickly to look at him, but a sudden movement in the group separated them after the first glance at each other.
By way of relieving his overcharged feelings he tried to interest himself in the passers-by. This, however, he found very difficult, until he observed a sturdy young Cabyle coming along with two enormous feathery bundles suspended over his right shoulder, one hanging before, the other behind. To his surprise these bundles turned out to be living fowls, tied by the legs and hanging with their heads down. There could not, he thought, have been fewer than thirty or forty birds in each bundle, and it occurred to him at once that they had probably been carried to market thus from some distance in the country. At all events, the young Cabyle seemed to be dusty and warm with walking. He even seemed fatigued, for, when about to pass the group of slaves, he stopped to rest and flung down his load. The shock of the fall must have snapped a number of legs, for a tremendous cackle burst from the bundles as they struck the ground.
This raised the thought in Foster’s mind that he could hope for no mercy where such wanton cruelty was not even deemed worthy of notice by the bystanders; but the sound of a familiar voice put all other thoughts to flight.
“Dis way, massa, you’s sure to git fuss-rate fellers here. We brought ’im in on’y yesterday—all fresh like new-laid eggs.”
The speaker was Peter the Great. The man to whom he spoke was a Moor of tall stature and of somewhat advanced years.
Delighted more than he could express, in his degraded and forlorn condition, at this unlooked-for meeting with his black friend, Foster was about to claim acquaintance, when the negro advanced to the group among whom he stood, exclaiming loudly—
“Here dey am, massa, dis way.” Then turning suddenly on Foster with a fierce expression, he shouted, “What you lookin’ at, you babby-faced ijit? Hab you nebber seen a handsome nigger before dat you look all t’under-struck of a heap? Can’t you hold your tongue, you chatterin’ monkey?” and with that, although Foster had not uttered a syllable, the negro fetched him a sounding smack on the cheek, to the great amusement of the bystanders.
Well was it then for our middy that it flashed into his mind that Peter the Great, being the most astounding “hyperkrite” on earth, was at work in his deceptive way, else would he have certainly retaliated and brought on himself swift punishment—for slaves were not permitted to resent injuries or create riots. As it was, he cast down his eyes, flushed scarlet, and restrained himself.
“Now, massa,” continued the negro, turning to the fine, sailor-like man who had spoken to Foster a few minutes before, “here’s a nice-lookin’ man. Strong an’ healfy—fit for anyt’ing no doubt.”
“Ask him if he understands gardening,” said the Moor.
We may remark, in passing, that Peter the Great and his owner had a peculiar mode of carrying on conversation. The latter addressed his slave in the Lingua Franca, while Peter replied in his own nigger English, which the Moor appeared to understand perfectly. Why they carried it on thus we cannot explain, but it is our duty to record the fact.
“Understand gardening!” exclaimed the sailor, in supreme contempt, “I should think not. Wot d’you take me for, you black baboon! Do I look like a gardener? Ploughin’ an’ diggin’ I knows nothin’ about wotsomever, though I have ploughed the waves many a day, an’ I’m considered a fust-rate hand at diggin’ into wittles.”
“Oh! massa, das de man for your money! Buy him, quick!” cried the negro, with a look of earnest entreaty at his master. “He say he’s ploughed many a day, an’’s a fuss-rate hand at diggin’. Do buy ’im!”
But the Moor would not buy him. Either he understood the sailor’s language to some extent, or that inveterate obstinacy of which Peter had made mention as being part of his character was beginning to assert itself.
“Ask this one what he knows about it,” said the Moor, pointing to a thin young man, whose sprightly expression showed that he had not yet fully realised what fate was in store for him in the pirates’ stronghold.
“Wich is it you mean, massa, dis one?” said Peter, purposely mistaking and turning to Foster. “Oh! you needn’t ask about him. He not wuff his salt. I could tell him at a mile off for a lazy, useless feller. Gib more trouble dan he’s wuff. Dere now, dis looks a far better man,” he added, laying hold of the thin sprightly youth and turning him round. “What d’ye t’ink ob dis one?”
“I told you to ask that one,” replied the Moor sharply.
“Can you do gardenin’, you feller?” asked Peter.
“Oui, oui—un peu,” replied the youth, who happened to be French, but understood English.
“None ob your wee-wees an’ poo-poos to me. Can’t you speak English?”
“Oui, yes, I gardin ver’ leetle.”
“Jus’ so. Das de man for us, massa, if you won’t hab de oder. I likes de look ob ’im. I don’t t’ink he’ll be hard on de wittles, an’ he’s so t’in dat he won’t puspire much when he works in de sun in summer. Do buy him, massa.”
But “massa” would not buy him, and looked hard for some time at our hero.
“I see how it am,” said the negro, growing sulky. “You set your heart on dat useless ijit. Do come away, massa, it ’ud break my heart to lib wid sich a feller.”
This seemed to clinch the matter, for the Moor purchased the objectionable slave, ordered Peter the Great to bring him along, and left the market-place.
“Didn’t I tell you I’s de greatest hyperkrite as ever was born?” said Peter, in a low voice, when sufficiently far in rear to prevent being overheard by his master.
“You certainly did,” replied Foster, who felt something almost like satisfaction at this change in his fate; “you are the most perfect hypocrite that I ever came across, and I am not sorry for it. Only I hope you won’t deceive your friends.”
“Honour bright!” said the negro, with a roll of the eyes and a solemnity of expression that told far more than words could express.
“Can you tell me,” asked the middy, as they walked along, “what has become of that fine-looking girl that was captured with her father and mother by your captain?”
“Don’t say my captain, sar,” replied Peter sternly. “He no captain ob mine. I was on’y loaned to him. But I knows nuffin ob de gall. Bery likely she’s de Dey’s forty-second wife by dis time. Hush! look sulky,” he added quickly, observing that his master was looking back.
Poor Foster found himself under the necessity of following his black friend’s lead, and acting the “hyperkrite,” in order to prevent their friendship being discovered. He did it with a bad grace, it is true, but felt that, for his friend’s sake if not his own, he was bound to comply. So he put on an expression which his cheery face had not known since that period of infancy when his frequent demands for sugar were not gratified. Wheels worked within wheels, however, for he felt so disgusted with the part he had to play that he got into the sulks naturally!
“Fuss-rate!” whispered