“Now Sam,” said I, “tell us all about it.”
“Ay, dew,” chimed in Hiram; “fire away, ye old black son of a gun!”
“All right, Mass’ Hiram an’ yer, too, Cholly. I’se tell you de trute, de hole trute, an’ nuffin’ but de trute, s’help me!”
“Carry on, you blooming old crocodile, carry on!”
Taking Tom Bullover’s words in the sense in which they were meant, as a sort of friendly encouragement to proceed, Sam, nothing loath to air his long-silent tongue, soon satisfied the eager curiosity of Hiram and myself—giving us a full account of his adventures from the time that we saw him drop from the rigging, when all the crew, with the solitary exception of his ally the carpenter, believed him to have been murdered and his body lost overboard.
“I’se specks,” he commenced, “dat yer all ’members when de cap’en shake him billy-goat beard, an’ shoot dis pore niggah in de tumjon, an’ I’se drop inter de bottom ob de sea, hey?”
“Yes,” replied Hiram; while I added: “But, how on earth did you manage to save your life and get on board again?”
“Dis chile cleberer dan yer tinks,” replied Sam proudly. “When de cap’en shoot, I’se jump one side like de Bobolink bird, an’ de bullet, dat he tink go troo my tumjon, go in de air. I’se make one big miscalkerfation, dough, fo’ my han’ mis de riggin’ when I’se stretch up to catch him, an’ I’se tumble inter de water.”
“Poor Sam!” said I. “Your heart must have come right into your mouth, eh?”
“Inter my mout, sonny?” he repeated after me. “Bress yer, it come up inter my mout, an’ I’se swaller it agen, an’ him go right down to de pit ob my tumjon! Lor’, Cholly, I’se tink I wer drown, fo’ suah, an’ nebbah come up no moah, fo’ de wave come ober my head an’ ebberyting! Den, jest as I’se scrape along de side ob de ship an’ wash away aft in de wake astern, I’se catch holt ob de end ob de boom-sheet, dat was tow oberboard.”