Noticing that it did not produce the ringing sound it would have done in
an empty gun, but went home with a soft thud, I sung out, "Stand clear,
sir. By Jupiter, the gun is loaded."
The negro continued to bash at it with all his might.
Meanwhile, the fellow who was driving the mules attached to the
fieldpiece, turned his head, and saw what was going on. In a trice he
snatched up another rammer, and, without any warning, came crack over
the fellow's cranium to whom we had been speaking, as hard as he could
draw, making the instrument quiver again.
"Dem you, ye, ye Jericho--ah so you bash my brokefast--eh? You no see
me tick him into de gun before we yoke de mule, dem, eh? You tief you,
eh?"
"No!" roared the other--"You Walkandyam, you hab no brokefast, you liard,
at least I never see him."
"Dem lie dat!" replied Walkandnyam--"look in de gun." Jericho peered
into it again.
"Dere, you son of a--" (I sha'n't say what)--"dere, I see de red
flannin wadding over de cartridge--Your brokefast!--you be dem!" roared
Jericho.
And he made at him as if he would have eaten him alive.
"You be dem youshef!" shrieked Walkandnyam--"and de red wadding be dem!"
as he took a screw, and hooked out, not a cartridge certainly, but his
own nightcap, full of yams and salt fish, smashed into a paste by
Jericho's rammer.
In the frenzy of his rage, he dashed this into his opponent's face, and
they both stripped in a second.
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