I stood dazed for a moment, wondering how this could have happened,—then a thought slowly dawned upon me.
"Who has charge of them?" I said.
George looked a little stupid, then defiant.
"I see," I said; and, suddenly, without remembering Charlie Webster's advice not to lose your temper with a negro—I realised that this was no accident, but a deliberate trick, something indeed in the nature of a miniature mutiny. That fluttering paper I had picked from the halyard lay near my breakfast table. I had only half read it. Now its import came to me with full force. I had no firearms with me. Having a quick temper, I have made it a habit all my life never to carry a gun—because they go off so easily. But one most essential part of a gentleman's education had been mine, so I applied it instantly on George, with the result that a well-directed blow under the peak of the jaw sent him sprawling, and for awhile speechless, in the cockpit.
And then my passenger—I must give him credit for the courage—put up his head for'ard, and called out:
"I protest against that; it's a cowardly outrage. You wouldn't dare to do it to a white man."
"O I see," I rejoined. "So you are the author of this precious paper here, are you? Come over here and talk it over, if you've the courage."
"I've got the courage," he answered, in a shaking voice.
"All right," I said; "you're safe for the present—and, George, who is so fond of sleep, will take quite a nap for a while, I think."