“A–ah!” drawled out Hiram; “I begins to smell a rat, I dew.”
“But, suah dat ’perrit wasn’t reel, hey, Mass’ Tom?” interposed Sam, his eyeballs starting again out of his head, as he recollected all the mysterious occurrences in the cave. “Dat ’perrit wasn’t reel, hey? I’se take um fo’ duppy, suah?”
“No, ye durned fule!” exclaimed Hiram, quite indignantly; “don’t ye know thet?”
“Some people weren’t so wise just now,” said Tom Bullover dryly; “eh, Hiram?”
“Nary mind ’bout thet,” growled the American, giving Tom a dig in the ribs playfully. “Heave ahead with yer yarn, or we’ll never git in the slack of it ’fore nightfall!”
“Well then, here’s the long and short of it,” said Tom, sitting down on the top of the little cliff-mound, so as to make himself as comfortable as possible, while we stood grouped around him. “You see, now, our Dutch mate’s story about the nigger that the buccaneers used to bury with their treasure put me up to taking a rise out of our friend Sambo here, who, though he was artful enough to play at being a ghost and haunt the ship, as you fellows thought all through the v’yage, was yet mortal ’fraid of them same ghostesses hisself, as I well knowed!”
“Oh, Lor’, Mass’ Tom, dunno say dat,” interrupted Sam reproachfully. “Speak fo’ true, an’ shame de debble!”
“That’s just what I’m doing, darkey. You know I’m speaking the truth; and I’m sure Charley and Hiram here can judge for theirselves, from what they saw not long ago!”
“Bully for ye!” cried Hiram, confirming Tom Bullover’s reference to himself. “Why, ye durned nigger, ye wer a’most yeller with frit jest now, when ye kinder thought ye seed one o’ them blessed ghostesses thet Tom wer a-talkin’ on!”
This effectually shut up Sam; and my friend the carpenter then went on with his account of the phenomenon we had seen.