So saying, the old gentleman led the way through a portico.  At the sight of strangers, the windows underneath were crowded with faces of various degrees of colour—­eyes and mouths wide open, the latter displaying rows of teeth, so even and so brilliantly white, that they might cause a sensation of envy to many an English belle.

The party were ushered into a spacious and cool apartment on the ground-floor, where a table was covered with all the varieties of a tropical breakfast, consisting of fried fish, curries, devilled poultry, salt meats, and everything which could tend to stimulate an enfeebled appetite.

“Now, gentlemen, let me recommend you to take a white jacket; you’ll be more at your ease, and there is no ceremony here.  Boy Jack, where’s the sangoree?  This is a fine climate, Captain Berecroft; all you have to attend to is—­to be temperate, and not to check the perspiration.”

Boy Jack who, par parenthese, was a stout, well-looking negro, of about forty years of age, now made his appearance with the sangoree.  This was a beverage composed of half a bottle of brandy and two bottles of Madeira, to which were added a proportion of sugar, lime-juice, and nutmeg, with water ad lib.  It was contained in a glass bowl, capable of holding two gallons, standing upon a single stalk, and bearing the appearance of a Brobdingnag rummer.  Boy Jack brought it with both hands, and placed it before his master.

“Now, sir, will you drink?” said the planter, addressing Mr Berecroft.

“Thank you,” replied Mr Berecroft, “I never drink so early in the morning.”

“Drink! why this is nothing but swizzle.  Here’s your health, sir, I’ll show you the way.”

The large goblet was fixed to his lips for upwards of a minute:  at last they unwillingly separated, and the old planter recovered his respiration with a deep sigh.  “Now then, gentlemen, do you take a little; don’t be afraid; there’s nothing you mayn’t do in this climate, only be temperate, and don’t check the perspiration.”  At this moment Newton was startled, and looked under the table.

“I thought it was a dog, but it’s a little black child.”

“Oh! there’s one out, is there?  Why, Boy Jack, did I not tell you to shut them all in?”

“Yes, sar, so I did,” said the black man, looking under the table.  “Eh!—­it’s that d—­d little nigger—­two-year old Sambo—­no possible keeping him in, sar.—­Come out, Sambo.”

The child crawled out to his master, and climbed up by his knee:  the old planter patted his woolly head, and gave him a piece of grilled turkey, with which he immediately dived again under the table.

“The fact is, captain, they are accustomed to come in at breakfast-time; they are only shut out to-day because I have company.  That door behind me leads into the nursery-yard.”

“The nursery-yard!”

“Yes, I’ll show it you by-and-bye; there’s plenty of them there.”