"'Well, mate, ye may fancy how I feels! Here I stands, givin' a look round for a fair offing; but there was bulwarks two fadom high all round the house, a big bloodhound lyin' chained, with his muzzle on his two paws, an' nobody seem'd for to mind me. So, I see'd it were all up wonst more; an' at the thou't of a knife in my tongue, I sits right down in the far-handy, rig'lar flabbergasted, when out that 'ere blasted skipper snoots his head again, an' says he, "Pumpey, my lad, good-day," says he; "you knows some'at o' the water, an' as they've boat-work at times hereaway, I don't know but, if you behaves yerself, they'll trust you with an oar now an' then: for I tould yer master jist now," says he, "as how you carn't speak no English!" Well, I gives him a hoath, 'cause by that time I hadn't a word to throw at a dog; and shortly arter, up comes the overseer with his black mate, walks me off to a shed, strips me, and gives me a pair o' cotton drawers and a broad hat--so out I goes the next mornin' for to hoe sugarcane with a gang o' niggers.
"'Well, mate, arter that I kept close enough--says no more, but mumbles a lot o' no-man's jargon, as makes 'em all log me down for a sort o' double-Guinea savitch--'cause why, I were hanged afeard for my tongue, seein', if so be I lost it, I'd be a nigger for ever, sure enough. So the blacks, for most part being country-bred, they talks nothin' but a blessed jumble, for all the world like babbies at home; an' what does they do but they fancies me a rig'lar African nigger, as proud as Tommy, an' a'most ready for to washup me they wor--why, the poor divvles 'ud bring me yams and fish; they kisses my flippers an' toes as I'd been the Pope; an' as for the young girls, I'm blowed if I warn't all the go amongst 'em--though I carn't say the same where both's white, ye know! What with the sun an' the cocoa-nut ile, to my thinkin', I gets blacker an' blacker--blessed if I didn't fancy a feller's very mind turned nigger. I larns their confounded lingo, an' I answers to the name o' Pumpey, blast it, till I right-down forgets that I'd ever another. As for runnin', look ye, I knowed 'twas no use thereaway, as long as my skin tould against me, an' as long as Africay wor where it wor. So, my boy, I see'd pretty clear, ye know, as this here world 'ud turn a man into a rig'lar built slave-nigger in the long run if he was an angel out o' heaven!