“I’m going to make you steward in poor Harry’s place,” said Captain Miles.
“Iss, massa,” responded Jake, greatly pleased at the honour thus bestowed on him, and making a low how with a scrape back of his left foot, according to negro etiquette, in acknowledgment of the favour.
“Look out, my lad, and make matters snug here as well as you can. You may call in your brother darkey the cook to help you, if you like.”
“Golly, massa, me do him much betterer own self,” replied Jake grinning hugely. “Dat Cuffee bery lazy sometimes.”
“Well, well, that’s like the pot calling the kettle black, I fancy,” said Captain Miles smiling. “However, you can please yourself, and get any of the hands you may want to assist in lifting back the bunks and so on in their proper places—some of the things may be too heavy for you. At all events, make the saloon presentable before we come down again, and swab up the deck.”
“That’s a willing fellow,” he added to Mr Marline, as we went out and mounted the poop-ladder. “I never saw a negro so handy, so plucky, and so willing.”
“Thank you, Captain Miles,” I said, taking the compliment to myself, as having a sort of family ownership in Jake.
“Why, what have you got to do with it, Tom Eastman?” he asked in his humorous way, poking fun at me.
“Well, captain, I don’t think you’d ever have seen him on board if it hadn’t been for me,” I retorted.
“You’re right there, but I’ll thank you for his passage-money, then, Master Tom,” said he, laughing at his joke and I too joining in, our wonderful good fortune having restored all our spirits amazingly.