“Certainly.”
“Oh, Mass’ Warmer, I’s not ready to die; ’deed I’s not. I’s been powe’ful wicked in my time, an’ dem kin’ o’ people has to jine de chu’ch an’ hab r’ligion ’fore deh heahs de trumpet blow.”
“No more fooling. Prince, you bring aft the grindstone that the crew sharpen their knives on. Hunt, you get the fog-horn and blow like h— when we heave him overboard. The d—d thing makes more noise than any trumpet I ever heard.”
“Yes,” added Warriner, “It may comfort the condemned.”
When we got back with the horn and grindstone, Cornwallis was jumping up and down and yelling like a maniac.
“I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! An’ ef yo’ drap me overboard dat’s why I’s boun’ to sink! Only lemme lib till we reaches dry lan’ an’ I’ll go into one ob dem conbents whar dey is said to be dead to de worl’, an’ I won’t nebber see none ob yo’ no moah.”
“The sinner owns up,” cried Pratt, and Prince grinned till every one of his ivories showed. “Now, Cornwallis, your life will be spared on condition that you make a clean breast of this matter. No more lies; and you must pay for the brandy you drank at the rate of one hundred dollars a gallon—wasn’t that it, Prince?”
“A hun’red dollahs a poun’, sah,” corrected Prince.
“I doan know how many poun’ I drank,” sniffed the cook, “an’ ef I has to pay dat much fur each one ob ’em, I’s got to wo’k more’n a year fur nothin’.”
“That’s better than being drowned to-day,” said I, “and you’d better be thankful. Now tell us how you took the brandy.”