Through Forest and Stream: The Quest of the Quetzal

The captain of the steamer stopped by where I was watching the flying fish fizz out of the blue-ink-like water, skim along for some distance, and drop in again, often, I believe, to be snapped up by some bigger fish; and he gave me a poke in the shoulder with one finger, so hard, that it hurt.
“Yes?” I said, for he stood looking hard in my face, while I looked back harder in his, for it seemed such a peculiar way of addressing one, and his manner was more curious still.
He was naturally a smooth-faced man with a very browny-yellow skin, and he kept on passing the finger with which he had poked me over first one cheek and then over the other, just as if he were shaving himself without soap.
Then his speech seemed more peculiar than his manner, for he repeated my one word, only instead of pronouncing it yes , he turned it into yuss .
He looked so comic and puzzled that I smiled, and the smile became a laugh.
I was sorry directly after, because it seemed rude to one who had been very civil to me ever since we left Kingston Harbour.
“’Tain’t nothing to laugh at, young feller,” he said, frowning. “I’ve been talking to him yonder, and I can’t make nothing of him. He’s a re-lay-tive of yours, isn’t he?”
“Yes; my uncle,” I replied.
“Well, I’m afraid he don’t know what he’s cut out for himself, and I think I ought to tell you, so as you may talk to him and bring him to his senses.”
“There’s no need,” I said, quickly.
“Oh, yes, there is, my lad. He don’t know what he’s got before him, and it’s right that you should. He’s going shooting, isn’t he?”