"Supple enough," said Dr ——, who now rode up, and felt his pulse first, and then his neck. "Poor fellow! supple as he is now, he will be soon stark and stiff enough. His neck is broken—that's all."
"Neck broken!" said Flamingo and I in a breath, much shocked.
"Yes, and dead as Julius Cæsar. But, pray, did you notice if the White Jacket and Black Cap came in?"
The man had, in very truth, actually broken his neck.
Several evenings after this, I was engaged with a fishing party, in a canoe, near the top of the harbour, at a cove where the prizes of the squadron were usually moored, previous to their being sold. It was a very fine evening, and the sun was setting gloriously in the west—as where else should he have set? Our sport had been very good, and we were thinking of taking up the grapnel.
"I say, Brail," said Flamingo, "let us go and inspect the Morne Fortunee there." This was a French privateer, one of the captured vessels, that lay about a cable's length from where we were.
"Come along, then—there, string the fish, Twister. Up anchor, boys, and pull for that brig."
As we approached, we saw a man get into a small skiff that lay alongside, with two black fellows in it, rather hurriedly, and pull for the shore.
The last rays of the evening sun shone brightly on him, as he passed us, and I had a good squint at his face. He gave me a piercing look also, and then suddenly turned away.
"Eh! no, it can't be—by Mercury, but it is though! Why, there is the fellow that saved my bacon from the Jew at the theatre, I declare. And more than that, when I piece several floating notions together—why, Don Felix, there goes, as large as life, the Master Wilson of Montego bay."