"There is Bob Bratton, of Miami," said McCarty, brightening, "he is as white as they make them; but," he added despairingly, "the best engineer in the world can do but little with a poor crew."
"I'm going to tend to that part of it," Charley said, with a smile. "You do your part, and I'll see that the crew does theirs. Well, go ahead and finish your story. There will be no work done on the machine to-day. Glad to have had this little chat with you. So-long. I'll make out your check this afternoon."
He stepped out of the tent into the clear sunshine again, strangely cheered by the fact that he had found at least one man in the gang upon whom he could depend.
At the cook tent he found Chris industriously scraping the dirt off the bench, and vigorously scolding the big negro, who was standing idly by, with a look of dismay on his ebony face.
"I'ze plum ashamed of you," Chris was saying. "I nebber thought dat a Bahama nigger could be so plum nasty and dirty. I'se sho' ashamed of my country when I see things like dis going on. Say, what island are you from, nigger?"
"Eluther," said the negro sullenly.
"Elutheria," echoed Chris, "right next to de Spanish Wells Island, whar you could hab learned all manner ob things from all dose white people what lives there. Nigger, I'se sho' ashamed ob you."
Charley grinned, as he turned to the Captain, who was facing the rest of the negroes, who had been drawn to the spot by the loud talking. They were a rough-looking lot of humanity, pitted by smallpox on their faces, and their bared arms and chests marked by old knife cuts and pistol wounds. But they were almost giants in size, broad-shouldered, and muscular-backed men with the narrow hips that mark the true athlete.
Charley paused to choose his words before addressing them.