“What the devil do you want?” he cried harshly.
But Zeke’s purpose was too earnest to be put down by mere ungraciousness.
“Work,” he replied with a smile.
Something in the applicant’s aspect mitigated the engineer’s asperity.
“Ever fire a boiler?” he questioned, more affably.
“Yes, an’ no,” Zeke answered; “not any real steam b’iler. But, when hit comes to keepin’ a hick’ry fire under a copper kittle, an’ not scorchin’ the likker, wall, I ’lows as how I kin do hit. An’ when it comes to makin’ o’ sorghum m’lasses, I hain’t never tuk off my hat to nobody yit. Fer the keepin’ o’ proper temp’rature folks says, I’m ’bout’s good’s anybody in Wilkes.”
“Humph!—boomer,” the engineer grunted, and there was silence for a moment. When next he spoke, his manner was kindly.
“Those niggers of mine skedaddled ’cause they’re lazy and worthless. But the stoke-hole is hell, all right. It ain’t no place for a youngster like you. I’ll hustle round to the gin-mills an’ get hold of a pair of tough guys. But there’s something else,” he went on, as Zeke’s face fell. “If you can make 41 sorghum molasses and moonshine without scorchin’ ’em, you’ll fill the bill, I reckon. We cruise off the coast for menhaddin—fat backs—for the oil in ’em. We carry steam-jacket kettles. I’ve got a green man now who’s no good. I’ll fire him and take you on. Thirty a month and your board—more by-and-by, if you suit.”
Zeke, elated at this opportunity, felt, nevertheless, that honesty required of him some further explanation. But the engineer dismissed consideration of the future.
“A month will give you enough for your fare to New York. If you ain’t pressed for time, a voyage will do you good. But don’t let the captain get a sight of that black bag, or it’ll go overboard. Sailors are afeared of ’em,” he chuckled. “The Neuse, my old ship, ran into The Blanche off Creek Beacon, in a fog, and sunk her. We rescued officers and crew, but the captain—Smith, his name was—couldn’t stop cussin’ ’cause he’d allowed a nigger mammy to go aboard as a passenger along with her old black bag, which was the why of the wreck, ’cording to his way of thinking. Took his friends nigh onto a year, to convince him that The Neuse was to blame for the collision. I suspect he’ll always have it on his conscience that he did finally collect damages off our owners.” The engineer 42 chuckled again. “Stow your bag under your bunk in the fore peak before the captain comes aboard.”