In the centre sat my man, a small sallow, yet
perfectly gentlemanlike personage.
"Dat is massa" quoth my black usher.
I accordingly walked up to him, and presented my letter. He never lifted
his head from his paper, which I had half a mind to resent; but at the
moment there was a bustle in the piazza, and a group of naval officers,
amongst whom was the admiral, came in. My silent friend was now alert
enough, and profuse of his bows and smiles.
"Who have we here? Who is that boy, L----?" said the admiral to his
secretary.
"Young Cringle, sir; the only one except Mr Splinter saved from the Torch;
he was first on the Admiralty list t'other day."
"What, the lad Willoughby spoke so well of?"
"The same, sir; he got his promotion by last packet."
"I know, I know. I say, Mr Cringle, you are appointed to the Firebrand, do
you know that?"--I did not know it, and began to fear my cruise on shore
was all up.--"But I don't look for her from Havanna for a month; so leave
your address with L----, that you may get the order to join when she does
come."
It appeared that I had seen the worst of the agent, for he gave me a very
kind invitation to stay some days with him, and drove me home in his
ketureen, a sort of sedan chair with the front and sides knocked out, and
mounted on a gig body.
Before dinner we were lounging about the piazza, and looking down into the
street, when a negro funeral came past, preceded by a squad of drunken
black vagabonds, singing and playing on gumbies, or African drums, made
out of pieces of hollow trees, about six feet long, with skins braced
over them, each carried by one man, while another beats it with his open
hands.
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