“Yes. Were the blacks civil to you?”
“Yes, but they sat and gloated over me as if they were picking out tit-bits, sir, till I felt all cold down the back, and as it didn’t seem the ripe time for the hot poker, for they didn’t begin to show fight, I thought I’d try a bit o’ civility.”
“Yes, what did you do?”
“Give ’em a civiliser.”
“I don’t understand you, Bob. Oh, you mean you gave them some spirits.”
“Tchah! Think I’m off my head, sir? Sperrits? Why, ever so little drives those black chaps mad as hatters. No,” whispered the old sailor, with a low chuckle, “I beckoned to one of ’em, and he come down off the rail where he’d been sitting in a row like a tame monkey with his mates, and he followed me, club in hand, to the stooard’s place, where I got a big jar and a table fork, and brought it back on deck to where his mates were waiting, and down they hopped as soon as they saw the jar, and began to dance round, singing, ‘’ticky! ’ticky!’ in a regular chorus.”
“Ah,” cried Carey, “they heard Black Jack call the molasses sticky.”
“Soon, though, as I cut the string and pulled off the bladder cover, and they saw it was all yaller, they began to show their teeth and snarl. ‘’Ticky! ’Ticky!’ they says again, but ‘all right, my lads,’ I says, and I sticks the fork into an onion, winks at ’em, and pops it into my mouth. Then I does the same with a gherkin, and, my word, didn’t they all change their tune! Everyone wanted a taste, so I gives the fork to the chap as come with me, makes him squat down, and claps the big brown jar between his legs.”
“Mixed pickles!” cried Carey, eagerly.
“Piccadilly, sir,” said the old sailor, correctively. “Then I makes all the rest sit round him in what you calls a silly circle.”