A black man leaped into the saloon through the forward door by which the waiter came and went. Two other black men were at his back. They stopped just inside the door and dragged off their knitted caps. They had the appearance of being a delegation, and an excited delegation at that. It was plain to be seen that they had come rushing aft without stopping to figure on consequences. The leader carried something in front of him, and it was looped over the blade of a wicked-looking-knife. He held the object at arm’s length toward Captain Holstrom, pointed at it with the vibrating finger of his left hand, and yelped shrilly like a dog. He was too excited and too furious to put his complaint into words.
“What have ye got there—a snake?” yelped the captain, gulping down a mouthful, and wrinkling his nose like one who had suddenly come upon something disgusting.
“We find him in our kittle—we find him dere. Yassuh! We eat ’most to de bottom, and den we find him,” raved the negro.
Captain Holstrom snapped up from the table and strode over and squinted at the object which dangled from the knife blade.
“Dey cook for us in our kittle a monkey tail—dem white men cook dat for us, and laugh,” squealed the negro.
“And you think that some of those cheap white jokers put it in, eh?”
“Dey laugh all de time since when we pull him out. Yassuh, it’s a lot of fun for dem men.”
Captain Holstrom rubbed his nose thoughtfully, and stared down on the thing which had savored the black men’s dinner.
A happy thought seemed to strike him. He turned his head and winked at me.
“Take that thing out and whack it across the face of the white man you find laughing the hardest,” he commanded. “When he gets up to hit you pitch in.” He came lurching back to the table. “I didn’t intend to have the row till to-morrow,” he informed us, in an undertone. “But this is too good a chance to miss. We’ll get that checker-board crew on a war basis where they’ll stay put.”