Ah ain't gwine tell no boy dat Mistah Hamlin, he say
he am supercargo, an' dat he reckon he got orders f'om de owners; and
Mistah Cap'n Falk, he say he am cap'n and he cuss su'thin' awful 'bout dem
orders; and Mistah Roger Hamlin he say Mistah Cap'n Falk his clock am a
hour wrong and no wonder Mistah Kipping am writing in de log-book dat de
ship am whar she ain't; and Mistah Kipping he swear dre'ful pious and he
say by golly he am writer of dat log-book and he reckon he know what's what
ain't. No, sah, Ah ain't gwine tell a boy dem things 'cause Ah tell stew'd
Ah ain't, an' stew'd, him an' me is great friends, what's gwine make a
fo'tune _when Mistah Cap'n Falk git dat money_!"
He said those last words in a whisper, and stared at me intently; in that
same whisper, he repeated them, "When Mistah Cap'n Falk git dat money_!"
Then, in a strangely meditative way, as if an unfamiliar process of thought
suddenly occupied all his attention, he muttered absently, letting his eyes
fall, "Seem like Ah done see dat Kipping befo'; Ah jes' can't put mah
finger on him." It was the second time that he had made such a remark in my
hearing.
The candle guttered in the saucer that served for a candlestick, and its
crazy, wavering light shone unsteadily on the black face of the cook, who
continued to stare at me grimly and apparently in anger.
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