“Ef you is puffin’ up-stream, you kin risk sixty-five,” Pipe Smash told him. “But atter you pass dat number—good-night!”
“Dat ain’t tellin’ me whut to do!” Skeeter snapped.
Smash scratched his woolly head, loosened his soiled shirt-collar by running his fingers around his fat neck, and sighed.
“I don’t know whut is did wid dem succumstances,” Smash declared. “I ain’t never loss my good sense an’ got up dat high yit. But I got it figgered out dat a real quick nigger could do two things: he kin open de furnace, rake out de hot coals, set de boat on fire an’ burn her up; or, he kin jump in de river an’ let de boat float ontil she busts!”
“Hear dem words!” Vinegar Atts bawled. “I knowed I had a good chance to orate over a corp’!”
Skeeter Butts looked greatly scared for a minute, then he took a big breath and rallied.
“Dat ain’t so awful dangersome,” he said. “I bet you niggers seben dollars per each dat dat indicator don’t never reach sixty no more—open dat furnace door, Hitch, an’ cool de b’iler!”
The commodore lost no time in obeying the captain.
“Dat ain’t de right way to do!” Pipe Smash told them. “Ef you open de furnace door, de b’iler gits hotter—dat makes de fire draw better!”
“Shet dat furnace door, Hitch, you fool!” Skeeter barked. “My Lawd, you’s gittin’ us ready to bust!”