“They’re a sorry lookin’ lot,” said Captain Beardsley, as he came up to the fence, rested his elbow on the top rail, and glanced back at his negroes, “and I am gettin’ tol’able tired of the way things is goin’, now I tell you. Sixty thousand dollars’ wuth of niggers has slipped through my fingers sence this war was brung on us, dog-gone the luck, and that’s what I get for bein’ a Confedrit. If I’d been Union like them Grays, I’d ’a’ had most of my hands with me yet.”
“I have a plan for getting even with those Grays, if you’ve got time to listen to it,” said Mark.
“I’ve got time to listen to anybody who will show me how to square yards with the feller who sneaked up like a thief in the night and set fire to my schooner,” replied Beardsley fiercely.
“But when Marcy did that wasn’t you trying to make a prisoner of him?” said Tom.
“Course I was. And I had a right to, ’cause aint he Union? If he aint, why didn’t he run Captain Benton’s ship aground when the fight was goin’ on down there to the Island? He had chances enough.”
“The Yankees would have hung him if he’d done that.”
“S’pos’n they did; aint better men than Marcy Gray been hung durin’ this war, I’d like to know? I wish one of our big shells had hit that gunboat ’twixt wind and water and sent her to the bottom with every soul on board; but it didn’t happen so, and Marcy was let come home to burn the only thing I had left in this wide world to make my bread and butter with. Why, boys, everything I’ve got that schooner made for me on the high seas—niggers, plantation, and all; and now she has been tooken from me, dog-gone the luck. How is it you’re thinkin’ of gettin’ even with him?”
Mark Goodwin had not proceeded very far with his explanation before he became satisfied that he had hit upon something which met the captain’s hearty approval, for the latter rested his bearded chin on his breast, wagged his head from side to side as he always did when he was very much pleased and wanted to laugh, and pounded the top rail with his clenched hand. He let Mark explain without interruption, and when the boy ceased speaking he backed away from the fence, rested his hands on his knees, and gave vent to a single shout of merriment.
“It’ll work; I just know it’ll work,” said he, as soon as he could speak, “and you couldn’t have picked out a better man for the job than that sneak Buffum. He’s beholden to me and wants money. Go down and tell him I want to see him directly.”
Then Beardsley rested his folded arms on the fence and fell to shaking his head again.