"I propose to appoint him executive officer of the Bronx."
"I am sure Mr. Flint could not have a better man."
In due time this appointment was made, and Captain Flint, on the recommendation of Christy, was entirely satisfied to receive him as his first lieutenant.
"One thing more, Captain Passford," continued the flag-officer; "the ship's steward of the Mercidita has been very sick for three weeks, and has applied for a sick-leave. I shall be obliged to transfer Mr. Nawood of the Bronx to his place."
"I can mention just the right person to take Mr. Nawood's place," said Christy eagerly.
"You seem to have a man ready for every vacant position. Who is he?" asked the commodore with a pleasant smile.
"His name is David Davis; but he is not a relative of the president of the Southern Confederacy, for he is a mulatto. He has rendered very important service on several occasions, and there is not a truer or braver man on board of the Bronx, or any other ship of the squadron," replied Christy with enthusiasm.
The commodore shook his head, but he looked very good-natured. Christy narrated the part Dave had taken in the capture of Captain Flanger in the cabin, and in recovering possession of the Bronx when it was shown that the officers were rebels. Mr. Flint was sent for. He was quite as earnest in his plea for the steward as the commander had been, and the written appointment of Mr. David Davis was in Christy's hands when the flag-officer took his leave of the wounded commander.
"Dave," said the wounded lieutenant, the next time the steward came into the room, "no more 'massa,' no more 'moggywompus,' no more 'done do it.' You know better than to use such expressions, and you are no longer a 'nigger;' you are the ship's steward of the Bronx."
"What's that, Captain Passford?" demanded Dave, opening his eyes like a pair of saucers.