Cunnel wanted to buy some o' dese fedders what ladies wears in dey hats. Cunnel's got a niece what's plum crazy 'bout 'em. Lordee, mister, dat sho is one more sharp yaller nigger what runs de awstrich-fedder sto'."
The German smiled, having recommended his American friend to Osman ben Issa, the most artful dealer in the Sudan.
Zack stuck at the steward's elbow, walking as he talked. Money jingled in his pocket and Said followed his every movement with ravening eyes. "Dis nigger, Hommit, he specify to Cunnel dat us kin git fedders mighty cheap; dat feller is nacherly givin' 'em away. Hommit, he talk so rapid, I begins to 'spicion Hommit. Huh! Dat yaller sto'-keeper pulls out a lot o' tin boxes an' piles up fedders on de flo', more'n 'nuff to stuff a bolster. Jes' soon as Cunnel picks out one fedder, dat yaller nigger 'low he don't want to sell dat'n, 'cause he grandaddy give it to him, but he'll let Cunnel have it for one hundred plasters. Ef Cunnel wouldn't give dat, how much would Cunnel give? He sot cross-legged, and kep' on axin', 'What'll you gimme? What'll you gimme?' Dat riled de Cunnel mightily when Hommit tole him dem words. So he riz up, Cunnel did, an' 'low he warn't gwine to do no tradin' wid him—yas, suh, Cunnel! Comin', suh."
