“What test am dat, sah?”
“Why, we must hang a grindstone round your neck and heave you overboard. If you didn’t steal the brandy, you’ll float. That’s what the book says.”
The cook’s jaw dropped, and he fell down in a heap. Throwing his arms around Pratt’s knees, he gasped: “Does yo’ mean dat, Cap’n?”
Pratt nodded.
“Oh, fur de good Lawd’s sake, what hab dis pore chile done dat he mus’ be kilt in cole blood! Ain’t I sarved you, sah, fur one, two, six,—wahl, seberal yeahs? An’ now is yo’ gwine to let dat blood-thu’sty niggah what’s been hankerin’ arter my life—is yo’ gwine to let him murdah me?”
“I feel sorry for you, Cornwallis,—d—n me if I don’t,—but there’s no help for it. The book says the craft will never reach port if the guilty person escapes, so it’s a case of your going overboard or all of us giving up the ghost.”
“Gents, is der no marcy in yo’ buzums?”
This piteous appeal was addressed to Warriner and me, and the cook looked so miserable that I could hardly play my part.
“No, you must prepare for the ordeal,” said Warriner, “and if you have told the truth you will surely float.”
“What, an’ a grin’stone made fas’ to me?”