The stuff was pure fire, but the Doctor gulped a full half-pint, and smacked his lips.
“Thunderbo’, yo’ sho’ ain’t gwine to make a po’ nigger drink sech holy water as disha. Give us somethin’ that’ll scratch, yo’ ape, or I’ll have to take charge here,--I sho’ will,” said the Doctor.
Thunderbore had a good temper, but was used to dealing with all classes of desperadoes. He passed the jar again, and drew a Spanish machete or corn-knife from his belt. He reached over and smote the Doctor playfully a blow with the flat of it that sounded with a loud clap through the dirty den.
Some of the men laughed in derision, but the Doctor showed his ugly teeth and glared at the den-keeper. He took another drink, and the fiery liquid began to show its effects. Even Martin’s eyes looked queer after a second taste, and he edged toward the huge, smiling African who held the jar and knife.
“I weel ken ye a murderer by yer eye,” said he, “but dare ye lay aside the steel an’ stand forth, I’ll trim ye, ye black ape. I’ll trim ye for th’ sake o’ the good wittles the Doctor has cooked.”
The pernicious effect of the liquor was showing in the men’s faces. Even I, temperate and peacefully disposed as I always am, began to feel a desire to assert myself in a manner not in keeping with my usual modesty. In fact, there were some there who were so drunk they actually accused me afterward of having precipitated trouble by driving my fist into the good-natured Thunderbore’s anatomy and seizing his machete. If I did such a thing, it must have been in the same spirit of playfulness that he exhibited when smiting the Doctor, for I was that peacefully inclined that even after seeing a struggling pile of human forms upon the floor, with the jar beneath them, I tried to separate a few with all my strength. After exhausting this, I remember Tim cautioned me to leave the intemperate fellows, who still struggled, threatened, and swore at the black Thunderbore, who, with several friends who had rushed from an adjoining room to his aid, now held the sailors at bay with a boarding-pike. This he jabbed furiously at the Doctor, and, because Big Jones would not allow him to be impaled upon it, the sea cook took offence and turned upon his saviour, with Martin as an able ally.
The whole scene soon resolved itself into a sailors’ brawl, which I feel ashamed to describe. I therefore withdrew with my companion Tim, who was almost as averse to a quarrel as I was myself.
We left the den, and he guided the way through the white streets of coral rock, which shone glaringly in the sunshine. They were dazzling, and the light made my head swim a bit, but we kept on until we ran into a shady lane, where an old negress had a small shanty, in front of which she displayed a litter of shaddocks, sour-sops, and sapodillas. Tim purchased some of the fruit, and then we struck into the bush until we reached a small inlet. Here, in the clear water into which one could see several fathoms, we plunged, leaving our clothing upon the bank.
“That settles it for me,” I said. “I’ll not go back in that ship. Even Mr. Curtis, with all his money and influence, can’t get me back.”
“Mr. Curtis is closely related to the governor, and can get you easy enough if he wants you,” said Tim. “But I feel myself like making the jump right here. I’ve been here before. There ain’t nothin’ can get off the island without he knows it. That’s the only thing that keeps me from it.”