“Some fifteen yars ago, on boord the Pontiac, jest afore she blowed up.”
“Indeed! I’ve no recollection of meeting you.”
“Don’t yer remember Kunnle D’lancy Hyde?”
“Perfectly.”
“Wall, I war his shadder. He couldn’t go nowhar I didn’t foller. If he took snuff, I sneezed. If he got drunk, I staggered. Don’t yer remember a darkish, long-haired feller, he called Quattles?”
“Are you that man?” exclaimed Vance, restraining his emotion.
“I’m nobody else, Mr. Vance, an’ it ain’t fur nothin’ I’ve got yer here to har what I’ve ter tell. Ef I don’t stop to say I’m sorry for the mean things I done, ’taint ’cause I hain’t some shame ’bout it, but ’cause time’s short. When the Pontiac blowed up, I an’ the Kunnle (he’s ’bout as much uv a kunnle as I’m uv a bishop), we found ou’selves on that part uv the boat whar least damage was did. We was purty well corned, for we’d been drinkin’ some, but the smash-up sobered us. The Kunnle’s fust thowt was fur his niggers. Says I: ‘Let the niggers slide. We sh’ll be almighty lucky ef we keep out of hell ou’selves.’ ’T was ev’ry man for hisself, yer know.”
“Were you on the forward part of the wreck?”
“Yes, Mr. Vance, an’ it soon began ter sink. Poor critters, men an’ women, some scalded, some strugglin’ in the water, war cryin’ for help. The Kunnle an’ I—”
“Stop a moment,” said Vance; and, drawing out paper and pencil, he made copious notes.