"Now, Massa Indio," said the former, "let me be coolmassa one leetle piece. I say, Palmy, it is find dat you hab two feets--dat you eats all you can grab," (_aside_), "your own and your neighbours"--(_then aloud_)--"dat you hab no fedders in your tail--and derefore you is call _one somniferous tripod_" (at least what he said sounded more like _this_ than any thing else). "Now, dere is dat ugly old one-foot neger cookey" (the fellow was black as a sloe himself), "wid his wooden leg, what would you call _he?_ tink well now; he only hab _one_ leg, you know." "One _unicorn_," said Palmy, after a pause, and scratching his woolly skull. But my laughter here put an end to the school, and was the innocent means of stirring up Palmy's wrath, who, mortified at perceiving that I considered the others had been quizzing him, was not long of endeavouring to work out his revenge. Slow as he might be at his learning, he was any thing but slow in this. Palmneedle now took the lead in the dialogue. "Chip," said Palmy, "enough of nonsense; so tell me how you lef de good old woman, your moder, eh?" Chip, who was caulking his seam, at this laid down his caulking-iron and mallet, pulled up his sleeve, fidgeted with the waistband of his trowsers, turned his quid, spat in his fist, and again commenced operations, grumbling out very gruffly, "my moder is dead." He had clearly taken offence, as Palmy evidently expected he would do; but _why_, I could not divine. Palmy proceeded in his lesson of "teazing made easy." "Nice old woman--sorry to hear dat." The rascal had known it, however, all along. "Ah, now I remember; she was mosh swell when I last see him--and face bloat--Ah, I feared, for long time, she would take to nyam dirt at last." "Who tell you so--who say my moder eat dirt?" cried Chip, deeply stung; for the greatest affront you can put on a negro, is to cast in his teeth either that he himself, or some of his near of kin, labour under that mysterious complaint, _mal d'estomac_. "Oh, nobody," rejoined Palmy, with a careless toss of the head; "I only tought she look wery like it--glad to hear it was not so, howsomedever--but sartain she look wery mosh like it--you mos allow dat yourself, Chip?" The carpenter made no answer, but I could see it was working. Palmy now began to sing in great glee, casting a wicked glance every now and then at his crony, who thundered away, rap, rap, rap, and thump, thump, thump, on the deck, paying the seam, as he shuffled along, with tobacco juice most copiously. At length he got up, and passed forward. Palmy sang louder and louder. "Come, mind you don't change your tune before long, my boy," said I to myself. Chip now returned, carrying a pot of molten pitch in his hand. As he stepped over Palmy's leg, he spilt, by accident of course, some of the hot fluid on his foot. "Broder Palmneedle--broder Palmneedle--I am wery sorry; but it was one haxident, you know."