“Sorry to ’t’rupt you, sar, but you come wid me.”
“Mayn’t I finish this operation first?” said Foster, looking up.
“No, sar. My orders is prumptory.”
Our amateur surgeon dropped the bandage indignantly and followed the negro, who led him down into the hold, at the further and dark end of which he saw several wounded men lying, and beside them one or two whose motionless and straightened figures seemed to indicate that death had relieved them from earthly troubles.
Amongst these men he spent the night and all next day, with only a couple of biscuits and a mug of water to sustain him. Next evening Peter the Great came down and bade him follow him to the other end of the hold.
“Now, sar, you go in dere,” said the negro, stopping and pointing to a small door in the bulkhead, inside of which was profound darkness.
Foster hesitated and looked at his big conductor.
“’Bey orders, sar!” said the negro, in a loud, stern voice of command. Then, stooping as if to open the little door, he added, in a low voice, “Don’ be a fool, massa. Submit! Das de word, if you don’ want a whackin’. It’s a friend advises you. Dere’s one oder prisoner dere, but he’s wounded, an’ won’t hurt you. Go in! won’t you?”
Peter the Great accompanied the last words with a violent thrust that sent the hapless middy headlong into the dark hole, but as he closed and fastened the door he muttered, “Don’ mind my leetle ways, massa. You know I’s bound to be a hyperkrite.”
Having thus relieved his conscience, Peter returned to the deck, leaving the poor prisoner to rise and, as a first consequence, to hit his head on the beams above him.