A Terrible Revenge.
“I’m very sorry for you, Sam,” I said, when he came up again to the galley, making his way forward much more slowly than he had scrambled aft to interview the skipper. “Captain Snaggs is a regular tyrant to treat you so; but, never mind, Sam, we’ll soon have you back in your old place here, for I don’t think there’s any fellow in the ship that knows anything about cooking like you!”
“Dunno spec dere’s am,” he replied, disconsolately, speaking in a melancholy tone of voice, as if overcome at the idea of surrendering his regal post of king of the caboose—the cook’s berth on board a merchant vessel being one of authority, as well as having a good deal of licence attached to it; besides giving the holder thereof an importance in the eyes of the crew, only second to that of the skipper, or his deputy, the first-mate. The next moment, however, the darkey’s face brightened, from some happy thought or other that apparently crossed his mind; and, his month gradually opening with a broad grin, that displayed a double row of beautifully even white teeth, which would have aroused the envy of a fashionable dentist, he broke into a huge guffaw, that I was almost afraid the captain would hear away aft on the poop.
“Hoo-hoo! Yah-yah!” he laughed, with all that hearty abandon of his race, bending his body and slapping his hands to his shins, as if to hold himself up. “Golly! me nebber fought ob dat afore! Hoo-hoo! Yah-yah! I’se most ready to die wid laffin! Hoo-hoo!”
“Why, Sam,” I cried, “what’s the matter now?”
“Hoo-hoo! Cholly,” he at last managed to get out between his convulsive fits of laughter. “Yer jess wait till cap’n want um grub; an’ den—hoo-hoo!—yer see one fine joke! My gosh! Cholly, I’se one big fool not tink ob dat afore! Guess it’ll do prime. Yah-yah! Won’t de ‘ole man’ squirm! Hoo-hoo!”
“Oh, Sam!” I exclaimed, a horrid thought occurring to me all at once. “You wouldn’t poison him?”
The little negro drew himself up with a native sort of dignity, that made him appear quite tall.
“I’se hab black ’kin, an no white like yer’s, Cholly,” said he gravely, wiping away the tears that had run down his cheeks in the exuberance of his recent merriment. “But, b’y, yer may beleeb de troot, dat if I’se hab black ’kin, my hart ain’t ob dat colour; an’ I wouldn’t pizen no man, if he wer de debbel hisself. No, Cholly, I’se fight fair, an’ dunno wish to go behint no man’s back!”
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said I, seeing that I had insulted him by my suspicion; “but what are you going to do to pay the skipper out?”