What Hawkson meant was evident as soon as we came within a half-mile of her to leeward. A most horrible odour, peculiar and penetrating, seemed to come from her. I had never known it before, but Bill stopped rowing at once and turned toward her.
“Niggers,” said he, spitting in disgust.
“Aboard of her?” I asked.
“Not youst now, maybe, but she’s been full of niggers more’n once. There’s youst a smell left behind, and it never leaves.”
CHAPTER XXI.
THE STRANGE BRIG
We reached the brig’s side, and a surly voice hailed us. “Whatcher want?” it said, in the deep baritone of the typical Yankee bos’n.
“Hoot, ye Yankee,” cried Martin, “we’ve come visitin’, d’ye ken that? A-visitin’, an’, if ye be so hospitable as ye have no reason t’ be, we’re dommed welcome. If we ain’t, I’ll ask ye to show us cause why, an’ maybe I ken prove ye’re wrong by the strength o’ logic,” and he held up two brawny hands like the paws of a tiger.
“Well, I don’t keer to have no drunken louts aboard this here vessel,” said the fellow, leaning over the rail so that I could get a glimpse of him. “Ef yer got any money, sing out whatcher want. This here’s a honest trading-brig, an’ kin give ye all a good nip o’ prime American whiskey for a mighty low price.”
The man was quite uncommon-looking. He must have stood six feet six, and was as lean as a flagstaff. His face was lined and burned, as though used to a tropical sun, and his eyes were faded and yellow.
“Ye be a rare raskil, an’ that’s a fact,” said Martin. “Is there anything ye widna do for the coin? Bide a bit, and let us coom aboard. ’Tis liquor I crave for the sake of me system.”