The negro cook, however, was awake for a wonder, and heard the mate’s message, thus saving the trouble of its being repeated to him.
“Yah, yah! me no sleep, Massa Scuppers,” he called out with that cheerful good humour that seems characteristic of the darky race, and which seems proof against any ill treatment;—“me jus’ goin’ brin’ coffee, sah, yes sah! It am lubly hot, massa, and ’trong as carthoss!”
“Hot and strong is it, Snowball?” said the first mate in his hearty, jolly way, as the darky cook stepped gingerly past the group of Lascars, and handed the cup of coffee up to him on the poop, with an obsequious bow. “But, how is it you’re not asleep?”
“Best to be most circumspectious, massa, wid dem culled pussons aboard; no caulking wid dem nasty yaller gen’lemen for me!”
“Well, that’s a good un!” laughed Mr Scuppers; “the pot calling the kettle black with a vengeance!”
“You mistake sah,” said Snowball with dignity. “I knows, Massa Scuppers, I isn’t ’xactly like you white gen’lemen; but den I isn’t a nasty mulatto like dem poor trash; and dey isn’t to be trusted!”
“Perhaps you’re right, Snowball; but we ought not to suspect them till we’ve found them out, you know.”
After another turn or two on deck, Mr Scuppers cabled the boatswain to him,—
“Martens,” said he, “have those Lascars turned in yet?”
“No, sir,” said Bill; “one of ’em at all events was awake just now, and spying about forward.”