"Pitch," suggested one.
"Turpentine," said another.
"Old Jamaica," suggested Old Nick.
"Not a bit of it," resumed the narrator. "Nothin' longer, nor shorter, nor hotter, nor reddern'n BLOOD. That 'ere's what came out o' that 'ere yaller mast. Blood, and nothin' else!
"Well, all of 'em were sort o' dumb-foundered when they see'd the blood flowin', and some on 'em was more skeery 'n ever. But I turns to 'em, an' says I:
"'Does yer notice how slow the ship is goin'?'
"And they says:
"'Yes, we does. She isn't makin' much o' any headway, though the breeze are a fair capful.'
"'Well,' says I, 'and doesn't yer know the reason why?'
"'Not a bit on it,' says they.