"Me--oh dear, de poor boy don't know noting about him own relation--No--I is Sally Frenche, daughter of old Terrence Frenche, your oncle dat was die five year ago--he who leave all his money to his broder, Mr Latom Frenche. I is his only daughter, and your cosin, and kind fader he was to me." "Well, kinswoman, I am glad to see you; but are these really my cousins? and again I ask, who is their mamma?" "Ha, ha, ha--you really know noting, none at all. Dere mamma, as you call _him_, is dead lang time; but come here--come here--dem is Teemoty--hold up your head, you poppy dag--and Peeta, all two Massa Latom sons--bote your own cosin, I no tell you?" "And that pretty young lady--who is she?" "Ha, ha, ha--Oh dear, oh dear!--why, him is Miss Daroty, dere sister." "And a devilish pretty girl she is, let me tell you. Why, Dorothy, give me a kiss, my fair cousin." And as I gave her a hearty smack, she dropped me a low curtsy. "Tank you, cosin Benjamin." Our friend the skipper was all this time taking his cargo on board with great industry, only stealing a passing squint at us now and then; and I was beginning to think it was high time to put in my oar also, lest I should go without my meal, when a great bustle was heard in the street--first a trampling as of a squadron of dragoons, then the rattling and grinding of carriage wheels through the sandy roads, and a loud gabbling of negroes. Presently some one whistled loud and shrill on his fingers, and a voice called out-- "Why, Sally Frenche--Sally--where the devil are you, and all your people, Sally?" "Massa Jacob Twig, sure as can be," cried Sally, and again the hysterical laugh seemed to carry her beyond herself. "All my friend come on me at one time. What shall me Sally do?--Teemoty, tell Parot-toe for kill de kidd, and de two capon, and de wile dock, dem [_anglice_, wild-duck], and--and--and--oh, tell him for kill every ting him can lay him ogly paw upon." "Den," quoth Timothy with a grin, "I shall keep out of de way, misses." "Sally"--shouted the same impatient voice from the street again. "Coming, Massa Jacob--Oh, dear!--ha, ha, ha!"--and as some one now entered the dark piazza, she ran out, and stumbled against him; and knocking his hat off, in her flourishing, she fairly clasped her arms round the person's neck for support during her violent and extraordinary cachinnations. "Oh, Massa Jacob, sweet Massa Jacob, I so glad to see you." "Why, old lady, you appear so, certainly; but come, come, you must be bewitched," said the stranger, shaking her off. "Do gather your wits about you, and desire your people to see my horses cared for; and get us some supper, _do you hear_?"--the words in Italics pronounced with a strange emphasis, and a very peculiar accent, as if they had been twisted out angrily from between the compressed lips. Here the speaker caught my eye: he bowed. "Good evening, sir. I hope I am not disturbing you, gentlemen."