“We’ve got to land at Jones’s plantation, sir.”
The vengeful spirit in me exulted. I said to myself, “I wish you joy of your job, Mr. Bixby; you’ll have a good time finding Mr. Jones’s plantation such a night as this; and I hope you never will find it as long as you live.”
Mr. Bixby said to the mate:
“Upper end of the plantation, or the lower?”
“Upper.”
“I can’t do it. The stumps there are out of the water at this stage. It’s no great distance to the lower, and you’ll have to get along with that.”
“All right, sir. If Jones don’t like it, he’ll have to lump it, I reckon.”
And then the mate left. My exultation began to cool and my wonder to come up. Here was a man who not only proposed to find this plantation on such a night, but to find either end of it you preferred. I dreadfully wanted to ask a question, but I was carrying about as many short answers as my cargo-room would admit of, so I held my peace. All I desired to ask Mr. Bixby was the simple question whether he was ass enough to really imagine he was going to find that plantation on a night when all plantations were exactly alike, and all the same color. But I held in. I used to have fine inspirations of prudence in those days.
Mr. Bixby made for the shore and soon was scraping it, just the same as if it had been daylight. And not only that but singing:
“Father in heaven, the day is declining,” etc.