“I wouldn’t adwise you to say them sorter things, gov’nor,” said Oakum, quietly. “I knowd a chap as rubbed the skin off the bridge of his nose wunst and blacked both his eyes agin my fist for saying less than that.”
“Bah!” said the Cuban, snapping his fingers.
“And do you know, Oakum?” exclaimed Mr Parkley, eagerly. “Can you prove it?”
“If anybody would pass a man a bit o’ ’bacco, I could, I dessay,” said the old fellow quietly. “Thanky, mate. Just pass the word for ’Pollo to come aft, will you? He’s in the galley.”
A sailor who had given Oakum the tobacco ran forward, while all waited in breathless attention—the Cuban standing like a statue, with folded arms, but, in spite of his apparent composure, smoking furiously, like a volcano preparing for an eruption.
The sailor came back directly.
“Says he’s cooking the passengers’ dinner, and can’t leave it, sir,” said the sailor.
“Tell the cook to come here directly. I want him,” exclaimed the captain, sternly; and the sailor ran off, returning with ’Pollo, the black cook, rubbing his shiny face.
“I speck, sah, if de rose meat burn himself all up, you no blame de cook, sah,” he said.
“No, no, ’Pollo; only answer a question or two.”