“So he does,” said Ailie; “isn’t it funny?”
“Isn’t what funny?” asked Glynn.
“That we should be no better than crocodiles—at least, I mean about eating.”
“You forget, Ailie, we cook our food.”
“Oh! so we do. I did not remember to think of that. That’s a great difference, indeed.”
Leaving Glynn and his little charge to philosophise on the resemblance between men and crocodiles, we shall now return to Tim Rokens and Phil Briant, whom we left in the trader’s cottage.
The irate Irishman had been calmed down by reason and expostulation, and had again been roused to great indignation several times since we left him, by the account of things connected with the slave-trade, given him by the trader, who, although he had no interest in it himself, did not feel very much aggrieved by the sufferings he witnessed around him.
“You don’t mane to tell me, now, that whalers comes in here for slaves, do ye?” said Briant, placing his two fists on his two knees, and thrusting his head towards the trader, who admitted that he meant to say that; and that he meant, moreover, to add, that the thing was by no means of rare occurrence—that whaling ships occasionally ran into that very port on their way south, shipped a cargo of negroes, sold them at the nearest slave-buying port they could make on the American coast, and then proceeded on their voyage, no one being a whit the wiser.
“You don’t mean it?” remarked Tim Rokens, crossing his legs and devoting himself to his pipe, with the air of a man who mourned the depravity of his species, but did not feel called upon to disturb his equanimity very much because of it.
Phil Briant clenched his teeth, and glared.
“Indeed I do mean it,” reiterated the trader. “Would you believe it, there was one whaler put in here, and what does he do but go and invite a lot o’ free blacks aboard to have a blow-out; and no sooner did he get them down into the hold then he shut down the hatches, sailed away, and sold ’em every one.”
“Ah! morther, couldn’t I burst?” groaned Phil; “an’ ov coorse they left a lot o’ fatherless children and widders behind ’em.”
“They did; but all the widders are married again, and most of the children are grown up.”
Briant looked as if he did not feel quite sure whether he ought to regard this as a comforting piece of information or the reverse, and wisely remained silent.
“And now you must excuse me if I leave you to ramble about alone for some time, as I have business to transact; meanwhile I’ll introduce you to a nigger who will show you about the place, and one who, if I mistake not, will gladly accompany you to sea as steward’s assistant.”
The trader opened a door which led to the back part of his premises, and shouted to a stout negro who was sawing wood there, and who came forward with alacrity.
“Ho! Neepeelootambo, go take these gentlemen round about the village, and let them see all that is to be seen.”
“Yes, massa.”
“And they’ve got something to say to you about going to sea—would you like to go?”
The negro grinned, and as his mouth was of the largest possible size, it is not exaggeration to say that the grin extended from ear to ear, but he made no other reply.
“Well, please yourself. You’re a free man—you may do as you choose.”
Neepeelootambo, who was almost naked, having only a small piece of cloth wrapped round his waist and loins, grinned again, displaying a double row of teeth worthy of a shark in so doing, and led his new friends from the house.
“Now,” said Tim Rokens, turning to the negro, and pointing along the shore, “we’ll go along this way and jaw the matter over. Business first, and pleasure, if ye can get it, arterwards—them’s my notions, Nip—Nip—Nippi—what’s your name?”
“Coo Tumble, I think,” suggested Briant.
“Ay, Nippiloo Bumble—wot a jaw-breaker! so git along, old boy.”
The negro, who was by no means an “old boy,” but a stalwart man in the prime of life, stepped out, and as they walked along, both Rokens and Briant did their best to persuade him to ship on board the Red Eric, but without success. They were somewhat surprised as well as chagrined, having been led to expect that the man would consent at once. But no alluring pictures of the delights of seafaring life, or the pleasures and excitements of the whale-fishery, had the least effect on their sable companion. Even sundry shrewd hints, thrown out by Phil Briant, that “the steward had always command o’ the wittles, and that his assistant would only have to help himself when convanient,” failed to move him.
“Well, Nippi-Boo-Tumble,” cried Tim Rokens, who in his disappointment unceremoniously contracted his name, “it’s my opinion—private opinion, mark’ee—that you’re a ass, an’ you’ll come for to repent of it.”
“Troth, Nippi-Bumble, he’s about right,” added Briant coaxingly. “Come now, avic, wot’s the raisin ye won’t go? Sure we ain’t blackguards enough to ax ye to come for to be sold; it’s all fair and above board. Why won’t ye, now?”
The negro stopped, and turning towards them, drew himself proudly up; then, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, he advanced a step and held up his forefinger to impose silence.
“You no tell what I go to say? at least, not for one, two day.”
“Niver a word, honour bright,” said Phil, in a confidential tone, while Rokens expressed the same sentiment by means of an emphatic wink and nod.
“You mus’ know,” said the negro, earnestly, “me expec’s to be made a king!”
“A wot?” exclaimed both his companions in the same breath, and very much in the same tone.
“A king.”
“Wot?” said Rokens; “d’ye mean, a ruler of this here country?”
Neepeelootambo nodded his head so violently that it was a marvel it remained on his shoulders.
“Yis. Ho! ho! ho! ’xpec’s to be a king.”
“And when are ye to be crowned, Bumble?” inquired Briant, rather sceptically, as they resumed their walk.
“Oh, me no say me goin’ to be king; me only ’xpec’s dat.”
“Werry good,” returned Rokens; “but wot makes ye for to expect it?”
“Aha! Me berry clebber fellow—know most ebbery ting. Me hab doo’d good service to dis here country. Me can fight like one leopard, and me hab kill great few elephant and gorilla. Not much mans here hab shoot de gorilla, him sich terriferick beast; ’bove five foot six tall, and bigger round de breast dan you or me—dat is a great true fact. Also, me can spok Englis’.”
“An’ so you expec’s they’re goin’ to make you a king for all that?”
“Yis, dat is fat me ’xpec’s, for our old king be just dead; but dey nebber tell who dey going to make king till dey do it. I not more sure ob it dan the nigger dat walk dare before you.”
Neepeelootambo pointed as he spoke to a negro who certainly had a more kingly aspect than any native they had yet seen. He was a perfect giant, considerably above six feet high, and broad in proportion. He wore no clothing on the upper part of his person, but his legs were encased in a pair of old canvas trousers, which had been made for a man of ordinary stature, so that his huge bony ankles were largely exposed to view.
Just