Pull out plenty beef longa that hook.
That boy no sing out. My word. He carn stop. Two weeks dead. Gins no bin
bury 'em. What you think? Cut 'em up beef from bone; put beef in bark,
put white paint alonga bark, tie 'em up and hung up 'em a longa
dilly-bag. My word, puff! Bi'mby you se-mell 'em stink."
George was not pressed to display his accomplishments. He chose during
many months to hold himself in reserve, and to live up to the reputation
of being quite a scholar, as far as scholarship goes among blacks. But
in accordance with expectations, his pride and enthusiasm got the better
of him. He produced two scraps of paper, on each of which were a number
of sinuous lines and scrawls, saying
"You write all asame this kind?"
"No," I said, "I no write like that."
"This easy fella? All the time me write this kind."
"Well, what you write?" George's attention at once became concentrated,
and gazing steadfastly on the paper for a minute or so for the
marshalling of his wits, said--"This fella say Coleman Riber, Coen Riber?
Horse Dead Creek, Massac (Massacre) Riber, Big Morehead, Kennedy Riber,
Laura Riber." These are the names of some of the streams north from
Cooktown, George's country.
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