Dey ain' gwine believe
no gammon dat yeh Kipping tells 'em--leastwise, no one ain't onless it's
Mistah Falk. Now you go 'long with you and don't you come neah me foh a
week without you act like Ah ain't got no use foh you. And boy," he
whispered, "you jest look out and keep clear of dat Kipping. Foh all he
talk' like he got a mouth full of butter, he's an uncommon fighter, he is,
yass sah, an uncommon fighter."
He paused for a moment, then added in such a way that I remembered it long
afterward, "Ah sho' would like to know whar Ah done see dat Kipping befo'."
I reached the forecastle unobserved, and as I started to climb into my
bunk, I felt very well satisfied with myself indeed. Not even Kipping had
seen me come. But a disagreeable surprise awaited me; my hand encountered a
man lying wrapped in my blankets.
It was Kipping!
He rolled out with a sly smile, looked at me in silence a long time, and
then pretended to shake with silent laughter.
"Well," I whispered, "what's the matter with you?"
"There wasn't any pie," he sighed--so mildly. "How sad that there wasn't
any pie."
He then climbed into his own bunk and almost immediately, I judged, went to
sleep.
If he desired to make me exceedingly uncomfortable, he had accomplished his
purpose.
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