Alan paused in his walk up and down the room and looked at Jeekie,
who sat upon the floor with his back resting against the stone altar,
reflectively pulling down his thick under-lip and letting it fly back,
negro-fashion.
"Jeekie," he said, "time's up. What am I to do?"
"Do, Major?" he replied with affected cheerfulness. "Oh! that quite
simple. Jeekie arrange everything. You marry Asika and by and by, when
you master here and tired of her, you give her slip. Very interesting
experience; no white man ever have such luck before. Asika not half bad,
_if_ she fond of you; she like little girl in song, when she good,
she very, very good. At any rate, nothing else to do. Marry Asika or
spiflicate, which mean, Major, that Jeekie spiflicate too, and," he
added, shaking his white head sadly, "he no like _that_. One or two
little things on his mind that no get time to square up yet. Daren't
pray like Christian here, 'cause afraid of Bonsas, and Bonsas come even
with him by and by, 'cause he been Christian, so poor Jeekie fall down
bump between two stools. 'Postles kick him out of heaven and Bonsas kick
him out of hell, and where Jeekie go to then?"
"Don't know, I am sure," answered Alan, smiling a little in spite of his
sorrow, "but I think the Bonsas might find a corner for you somewhere.
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