There were times when I fancied that the officers looked quite serious, but they said nothing, only were very particular about the hatches being kept closed.
Then came a spell of finer weather, during which we reached Jamaica, and I was thinking of getting a few days ashore, so as to see something of this beautiful island; but it was not to be, for we found that we were very late, that the steamer into which we were to shift had been waiting for us three days, and if we did not take passage in her we should have to wait a fortnight, perhaps longer, for another.
“And I did so want to see the niggers in the sugar plantations, and taste real Jamaica rum. Say, Mas’r Harry, that stuff people drink in England’s all gammon.”
“Why so?” I asked.
“Because it’s brown and yellow, like wine,” he replied. “Real Jamaica rum’s quite white.”
“Well, Tom,” I said, “I don’t know that it will make any difference to us; and as to the sugar plantations and the niggers, as you call them, I daresay you will be able to see some at my uncle’s place.”
“But he don’t grow sugar, does he, Mas’r Harry?”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but I think so. I know he grows a great deal of coffee.”
“Think of that, now, Mas’r Harry! And tea, too?”
“No, he does not grow tea, Tom.”