It was dark before the Rebiera was anchored in the outer roads, a cable’s length astern of the outermost American vessel. One of her quarter-boats was lowered down, and Gascoigne and our hero pulled alongside, and, lying on their oars, hailed, and asked the name of the vessel.
“So help me Gad, just now I forget her name,” replied a negro, looking over the gangway.
“Who’s the captain?”
“So help me Gad, he gone on shore.”
“Is the mate on board?”
“No, so help me Gad—he gone shore too.”
“Who is aboard then?”
“So help me Gad, nobody on board but Pompey—and dat me.”
“Good ship-keepers, at all events,” said Jack. “A ship in the outer roads with only a black fellow on board! I say, Pompey, do they always leave you in charge of the vessel?”
“No, sar; but to-night great pleasure on shore. Eberybody dance and sing, get drunk, kick up bobbery, and all dat.”