“Oh, if we only could get back, Tom!”
“All right, sir; give us time; and the longer the better, I say, sir, for if you goes aboard with us lads looking all chipped and knocked about like we are, Cap’en Maitland’ll be arksing you why you ain’t took better care of your men.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that, Tom,” cried Mark, triumphantly; “I’ve got the schooner, and the slaves.”
“You have, sir, and it’s such a splendid job for a young orficer like you to have done, that Mr Howlett’ll be ready to eat his head off like with disappyntment because he warn’t in the game. You’ve done it this time, sir. Why, our skipper ought to put you down for a swab on your shoulder as soon as you’ve got one big enough to carry it.”
“Now, no joking, Tom Fillot, because I’m friendly with you. Recollect I’m your officer.”
“Right, sir, I will. I didn’t mean no harm. It’s only a way my tongue’s got o’ saying things. I say, sir, just look at them poor half-starved blacks. ’Most makes me feel like a girl, sir, and soft, to see how happy they are.”
“Yes, poor creatures. But tell me, Tom. It’s a terrible responsibility for me with this vessel and all those people. Are they likely to make a fight for their liberty?”
“Why, they’ve got it, ain’t they, sir?”
“Yes, but they don’t understand it. They may think it’s only a change of masters, and rise against us.”
“Not they, sir. Why, see how they looks at us, sir. They’d lay down and let you walk over ’em, sir. Why, I’ve seen all them poor women look as if they could eat you, sir. I don’t mean with their teeth, but with their eyes. They’re safe enough, sir. They’ve been well-fed on Soup and Taters—I mean them two black messmates of ourn’s talked to ’em till they understands about being under the Union Jack, and all that sort o’ thing.”