"Who—who wus yer? Whatcha want yere?"
"I am asking questions, and you are answering them. Are you armed? All right, then; hand it over. Now put out that light."
He did exactly as I told him, moving as though paralyzed by fear, yet unable to resist.
"You are a negro—a slave?"
"Yas, sah; Ah's Massa Donaldson's boy frum Saint Louee."
"He is the sheriff?"
"Yas, sah—yas, sah. Whar is Massa Donaldson? Yer ain't done bin sent yere by him, I reckon. 'Pears like I never see yer afore."
"No, but he is quite safe. What is your name?"
"Sam, sah—just plain Sam."
"Well, Sam, I understand you are an engineer. Now it happens that I want to use this boat, and you are going to run it for me. Do you understand I am going to sit down here on the edge of this cockpit, and hold this loaded pistol just back of your ear. It might go off at any minute, and surely will if you make a false move or attempt to foul the engine. Any trick, and there is going to be a dead nigger overboard. I know enough about engines to tell if you play fair—so don't take any chances, boy."