“He—he!” laughed the American; “yew needn’t be shamed on it. Yewr cap’en don’t like it, p’r’aps; but I see yew pulling away at a cigar threw my glass.”
Mark turned crimson.
“Needn’t tell a cracker about it, squaire. Here we are,” he continued, taking the papers from Ephraim—evidently his mate. “Hev a look at ’em, squaire; but I reckon if one of our officers was to board one of your traders, and ask for ’em, yewr folk’d make no end of a fizzle about it.”
Mark felt uncomfortable as he took and glanced through the papers, which were all in the most correct style. There was not a point upon which he could seize; and without some grounds he had no right to search the vessel, whose hold looked to be closely battened down, while there was not a sound to suggest that there were slaves on board.
“We’ve made a mistake,” he thought, as the writing on the papers seemed to dance before his eyes; “and yet I could have sworn she was a slaver.”
“Find ’em all right and squaire?” said the American, with his little grey eyes twinkling; and he held out his hand for the papers.
“Yes,” said Mark, returning them reluctantly, and then glancing at Tom Elliot, whose countenance was a puzzle.
“That’s right, squaire; that’s right. Theer, I shan’t cut up rusty, though I might, of course. It was yewr dewty, I s’pose.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mark.
“That’s right, squaire. Allus dew yewr dewty. I ain’t riled. But yew’ll trade that barl or tew o’ whites flour with me, I reckon, and anything I’ve got you shall hev. What dew yew say to some Chicago pork? Rale good.”