“I guess,” said Hiram, after one or two failures to get the fuel to ignite, in spite of his pouring a lot of oil on it, so as to neutralise the effect of the damp, “I’ll burn thet durned old kiver of my chest ez got busted t’other day in the fo’c’s’le; fur it ain’t no airthly good, ez I sees, fur to kip pryin’ folk from priggin’ airy o’ my duds they fancies!”
With this, Hiram started off for the fo’c’s’le, taking one of the ship’s lanterns with him, to see what he was about.
He returned a minute or two after, looking quite scared.
“Say, Cholly,” he exclaimed—addressing me as all the rest in the fo’c’s’le always styled me, following the mode, in which poor Sam Jedfoot had pronounced my name, instead of calling me “Charley,” properly, all darkeys having a happy facility for abbreviation, as I quite forgot to mention before—“Say, Cholly, guess I’ll kinder make yer haar riz! What d’yer reckon hez happened, b’y, hey?”
“What, Hiram?” replied I, negligently, not paying any particular attention to his words, having started to work at once, chopping up the box cover, which he had thrown down on the deck at my feet. “What has happened, Hiram—whatever is the matter now?”
“Thar’s matter enuff, I reckon, younker,” said he solemnly, in his deep, impressive tones. “Guess this air shep’s sperrit-haunted, thet’s all, my b’y, an’ the whole bilin’ of us coons aboard air all doomed men!”