“You’re a rum ’un, Soup,” growled the sailor. “Who’d have thought it of a savage? Why, it was reg’lar polite and genteel. I couldn’t ha’ done that. Who’d ha’ expected it of a chap who dresses in an orstridge feather and a wisp o’ grass when he’s at home?”
The black gazed at him inquiringly, striving hard to make out his meaning, the poor fellow’s face growing more puckered every moment.
“Dessay you were a prince when you was over yonder; now you’re a foremast man. Well, ups and downs in life we see, Soup old chap. Mebbe I shall be a prince some day. Ah, well, you’re not a bad sort, and I’m glad you haven’t got flogged.”
Meanwhile Mark was talking to Tom Fillot about the culprits.
“Then you think I ought to have punished them, Tom?” said Mark.
“Well, sir,” said Tom, rubbing one ear, “I do and don’t, sir. What’s to be done with chaps like that, as don’t know no better?”
“Exactly,” cried Mark. “They fought for us as well as they could.”
“They have, sir, and it ain’t as if they’d had a twelvemonth of the first luff to drill ’em into shape. But, bless your ’art, sir, if they had they mightn’t have been able to fight agin sleep. Able seamen can’t always do it, so what’s to be expected of a regular black just picked out of a slaver’s hold?”
“That will do, then,” said Mark. “You have helped me so that I didn’t like you to think I went against your advice.”
“Don’t you be afeared of that, sir,” cried Tom. “I give you my bit of advice for you as a gentleman and a scholard, to see if it’s worth taking. Well, sir, what about the prisoners now?”