“Bri’sh sailor no hurt poor niggah?”
“Not a bit of it, darkie. Can’t you understand we’ve come to set the slaves free?”
“No,” said the black sadly. “Massa Huggin say—”
“Massa Huggin say!” growled the big sailor, frowning fiercely. “You tell your Massa Huggins that the British sailor is going to—See here, you benighted heathen. I want to make you understand some’at. There, hold still; I’m not going to hurt you. Now see.”
As the sailor spoke he untied the knot of his neckerchief and threw it round the black’s neck, made a fresh slip-knot and drew it tight, and with horrible realism held up one end of the silken rope, while with a low wail the poor shivering wretch sank unresistingly upon his knees in the bottom of the boat.
“Don’t, don’t, Tom! You’re frightening the poor fellow to death.”
“Nay, sir; he’ll understand it directly. It’s all right, darkie,” he continued, with a broad grin at the black’s fear. “I want to show you what a British sailor means to do with your Massa Huggins.”
“Massa Huggin? No kill Caesar?”
“Kill Caesar, darkie?” cried the sailor. “No, no. Hang—yard-arm—Massa Huggins. We’ll teach him to talk about burning his Majesty’s Ship Seafowl. There, now do you understand?” cried Tom, slipping off the black silk handkerchief and knotting it properly about his own brawny neck, while as he gave the black another hearty clap on the shoulder the poor fellow’s shiny black face seemed to have become the mirror which reflected a good deal of the tar’s jovial smile. “There, sir,” continued the big sailor; “that’s our Mr Dempsey’s way o’ teaching a man anything he don’t understand. ‘Show him how it’s done,’ he says, ‘with your fisties, and then he can see, and he never forgets it again.’”
“That’s all very well, Tom,” said Murray, smiling, “but it’s rather a rough style of teaching, and you nearly made the poor fellow jump overboard.”