The negro had already jumped into the Mexicans' boat, and, with the heedlessness of his race, had left his own adrift.
"Ingles!" said one of the pirates, "sit you here." And he showed him his place in the bow of the boat next to a young Mexican. "And Pompey in the middle, and now let's be off."
"Stop!" cried Hodges. "Had we not better divide ourselves between the two boats?"
"Ah, massa never rowed across the Sippi," tittered the lazy negro. "Massa not get over in six hours, and come to land at Point Coupé."
"Hush, Pompey," muttered his neighbour, and the boat, impelled by six pair of hands, darted swiftly out into the stream.
"Ah, Massa Manuel, let Pompey file off him chains," grumbled the black. "Pompey been in upper jail—been cunning," laughed he to himself; "took file and helped himself out. Massa Parker stare when he see Pompey gone."
"Hold your tongue, doctor," commanded a voice from the hinder part of the boat, "and let your chains be till you get across."
The negro shook his head discontentedly. "Massa Felipe wouldn't like to be in the collars," said he; but nevertheless he put away his file, and whilst with one hand he managed the oar, with the other he held the chain connecting the ankle irons with the collar, and which had been filed in too close to the latter. This collar consisted of a ring two inches broad, and as thick as a man's finger, encircling the neck, and from which three long hooks rose up over the crown of the head. With a sort of childish wonder he weighed the chain in his hand, staring at it the while, and then let it fall into the bottom of the boat, which now advanced towards the middle of the stream.
"Poor Lolli!" said the negro after a short silence—"she be sad not to see Pompey. She live in St John's, behind the cathedral."
"Pompey!" cried the Mexican who sat forward on the same bench with Hodges, "your cursed chain is rubbing the skin off my ankles."