“Well,” thought I, “if I live and do well, I shall know more about it; yes, if I live, I wish I was on the quarterdeck of the Calliope, even as Tommy was with his pockets stuffed full of the purser’s raisins, and looking like a fool and a rogue at the same time.”
I had been down in the cabin about half an hour, when the negro captain made his appearance.
“Well,” said he, “I suppose you would as soon see the devil as me—eh, boy?”
“No: indeed,” replied I, laughing—for I had quite recovered my confidence—“for you were about to send me to the devil, and I feel most happy that I still remain with you.”
“You’re exactly the cut of boy I like,” replied he, smiling. “How I wish that you were black!—I detest your colour.”
“I have no objection to black my face, if you wish it,” replied I: “it’s all the same to me what colour I am.”
“How old are you?”
“I was fifteen a few months back.”
“How long have you been to sea?”
“About eighteen months.”