“That cannot be; it's against the law to kill bulls in South Carolina,” interrupted the jailer jocosely.
“Must be. I swear he bull-neck, 'cas he cum every day just like him. Bull born wid one neck no cum so many. What I get for breakfast, Capitan, ah?—piece bad bread. What I get for dinner, ah?—bull-neck. Yes, what I get for supper, too?—piece bread and bucket o' water. May-be he bad, may be he good, just so he come. You think I live on dat, Capitan?” said he, in reply to the Captain's questions.
The Captain felt incensed at such treatment, and excused himself for not calling before; yet he could not suppress a smile that stole upon his countenance in consequence of Manuel's quaint earnestness.
“That is certainly strange fare for a human being; but the supper seems rather a comical one. Did you drink the bucket of water, Manuel?” inquired the Captain, retaining a sober face.
“Capitan, you know me too well for dat. I not ask 'em nozin' what he no get, but I want my coffee for suppe'. I no eat him like zat,” throwing the putrid meat upon the floor again.
“Hi, hi! That won't do in this jail. You're dirtying up all my floor,” said the jailer, calling a negro boy and ordering him to carry the bull-necks, as Manuel called them, into the kitchen.
“You call him dirt, ah, Miser Jailer? Capitan, just come my room; I shown him,” said Manuel, leading the way up-stairs, and the Captain followed. A sight at the cell was enough, while the sickly stench forbid him to enter beyond the threshold. He promised Manuel that he would provide for him in future, and turning about suddenly, retreated into the lower lobby.
“Jailer, what does all this mean? Do you allow men to starve in a land of plenty, and to suffer in a cell like that?” asked the Captain in a peremptory tone.
“I feel for the men, but you must enter your complaints to the sheriff-the ration of the jail is entirely in his hands.”
“But have you no voice in it, by which you can alleviate their situation?”