“Guess I don’t see nuthin’ to snigger over!” growled Hiram, shamefaced at being so readily imposed on; but he was too good a sailor to mind a joke against himself, and the comicality of the situation striking him, too, like me, he was soon laughing as loudly as Tom and I.
Sam only needed this further secession likewise to set him off, his negro nature possessing the hysterical features of his race, and going readily from one extreme to the other.
A second before he had been paralysed with fright; now he was as instantly convulsed with glee.
“My gosh!” he yelled, showing his ivories as his whole face expanded into one big guffaw that utterly eclipsed all our attempts at merriment. “Hoo-hoo, yah-yah! Dat am prime, Cholly—black ghost fo’ whitey! Hoo-hoo, yah-yah! I’se die a-laffin’, like Tom! Black ghost fo’ whitey!—Hoo-hoo, yah-yah, hoo-hoo! Golly! Dat am prime, fo’ suah!”
Sam’s negro abandon and queer gestures, as he danced about and doubled himself up in his wild convulsions of mirth, were absolutely irresistible; and so we all roared in concert, like a party of lunatics, laughing until the tears actually ran down our cheeks.
“An’ how did yer fix the hull thing so smartly?” inquired the American, presently when he was able to speak. “Ye took me in finely, I guess; ye did thet so!”
“Lor’, old ship! that were easy enough, when you comes to think of it.”
“But, how?” persisted Hiram, as Tom broke off his explanation to indulge in another laugh. “Hyar’s Sam, what was ded, alive agen an’ kickin’, ez my shins ken tell, I reckon! How about his hauntin’ the shep, an’ all thet?”
“Yes, Tom,” I put in here; “how was it that he wasn’t killed?”
“Oh, Sam ’ll explain all about his bizness,” replied Tom, laughing again, the ridiculous nature of the whole thing appealing strongly to his risible faculties. “I’ve got enough to do to tell you about my own ghost—the sperrit, that is, of the black man that our second-mate spun that yarn about yesterday arternoon!”