“This is extraordinary! There’s nothing to this sauce—it has no body. There is positively not a drop of brandy in it; nor of kerosene, for that matter.”
“Dat am bery strange, Mass’ Warmer. De brandy must ’a’ done ’vaporated.”
“Evaporated down your throat, you black villain! Captain Pratt, I consider this a flagrant outrage. I furnished a quantity of good brandy for this pudding, not a drop of which has been used. What has become of it?”
“Dat Monday or some ob de han’s might ’a’ stole it when I wahn’t lookin’,” suggested the cook.
Prince, the bo’s’un, was standing outside near the door, and had evidently heard part of the confab. He now called out:
“Ef you ’lows me, Cap’n, I reckons I kin find out de truf in dis argument.”
“Come in, Prince,” answered Pratt. “If you can get any truth out of Cornwallis you’re smarter than I think you are.”
The cook looked indignant—not so much at being called a liar as having the bo’s’un admitted,—for he and Prince were not on good terms, and he considered the bo’s’un’s interference a piece of pure impudence.
Prince entered, cap in hand. I’m tolerable tall myself, but he was a good four inches above me, and a right good looking darkey into the bargain. He walked right up to the cook.
“Walrus Jones, you stole dat gemmen’s brandy. You lies ef you says you didn’t.”