“Yes, sir, you’ve threw good money away here,” said Morgan; “he’ll never do a stroke of work for us, but thank you kindly for meaning help all the same, and I must try what I can do with the boy.”
“Is he dead, father?” I whispered, in an awe-stricken tone.
“No, but dying, I am afraid. He has been starved and suffocated in that vile schooner. Good heavens! How can men be such fiends?”
“Ay, that can’t do no harm,” said Morgan, as I filled the boat’s baler with water, and knelt down by the negro’s side to begin trickling a few drops from time to time between his cracked lips, and sprinkling his face.
“I will fetch a few drops of spirit,” said my father. “Keep on giving him a little water.”
He went away toward the house while I continued my task, and Morgan kept up a running commentary upon the man’s appearance.
“Pity, too,” he said. “Master oughtn’t to have let them cheat him though, like this. Fine working chap. See what a broad, deep chest he’s got, Master George. Don’t think much of his legs, but he’s got wonderful arms. My! What a sight of hoeing I could have got him to do, but it’s a case of hoe dear me! With him, I’m afraid.”
“You don’t think he’ll die, Morgan, do you?” I said, piteously.
“Ay, but I do, my dear lad. They’ve ’bout killed him. We want help, but I’m ’fraid all that slave-dealing’s ’bout as bad as bad can be. Give him a few more drops o’ water; those others trickled down.”
I gave the man a few more drops, pouring them from my fingers almost at minute intervals, but he made no sign. Then, all at once, I felt half startled, for a pair of eyes were watching me, and I saw that the boy had recovered sufficiently to be noticing everything that was going on.