.

"Wich is it you mean, massa, dis one?" said Peter, purposely mistaking
and turning to Foster. "Oh! you needn't ask about _him_. He not wuff
his salt. I could tell him at a mile off for a lazy, useless feller.
Gib more trouble dan he's wuff. Dere now, dis looks a far better man,"
he added, laying hold of the thin sprightly youth and turning him round.
"What d'ye t'ink ob dis one?"

"I _told_ you to ask that one," replied the Moor sharply.

"Can you do gardenin', you feller?" asked Peter.

"Oui, oui--un peu," replied the youth, who happened to be French, but
understood English.

"None ob your wee-wees an' poo-poos to me. Can't you speak English?"

"Oui, yes, I gardin ver' leetle."

"Jus' so. Das de man for us, massa, if you won't hab de oder. I likes
de look ob 'im. I don't t'ink he'll be hard on de wittles, an' he's so
t'in dat he won't puspire much when he works in de sun in summer. Do
buy _him_, massa."

But "massa" would not buy him, and looked hard for some time at our
hero.

"I see how it am," said the negro, growing sulky. "You set your heart
on dat useless ijit. Do come away, massa, it 'ud break my heart to lib
wid sich a feller."

This seemed to clinch the matter, for the Moor purchased the
objectionable slave, ordered Peter the Great to bring him along, and
left the market-place.

"Didn't I tell you I's de greatest hyperkrite as ever was born?" said
Peter, in a low voice, when sufficiently far in rear to prevent being
overheard by his master.

"You certainly did," replied Foster, who felt something almost like
satisfaction at this change in his fate; "you are the most perfect
hypocrite that I ever came across, and I am not sorry for it. Only I
hope you won't deceive your friends."

"Honour bright!" said the negro, with a roll of the eyes and a solemnity
of expression that told far more than words could express.

"Can you tell me," asked the middy, as they walked along, "what has
become of that fine-looking girl that was captured with her father and
mother by your captain?"

"Don't say _my_ captain, sar," replied Peter sternly. "He no captain ob
mine. I was on'y loaned to him. But I knows nuffin ob de gall. Bery
likely she's de Dey's forty-second wife by dis time. Hush! look sulky,"
he added quickly, observing that his master was looking back.

Poor Foster found himself under the necessity of following his black
friend's lead, and acting the "hyperkrite," in order to preve