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And he rested his yellow hand caressingly upon the breech of the gun. I shook my head energetically, rendering as prominent as possible the whites of my eyes, at which he grinned wider than ever. "No, sah, Mister Oppercer Man; you don't git dis hyer nigger into no fought, sah," I protested with vehemence. "I done fought wid de Injuns onct, sah, an' I done don't want no mo'."
I cried, in unaffected anguish, rubbing the injured part tenderly, yet speaking loud so that my words should be distinctly audible below. "Dat oppercer man he done tol' me to foller him to de Captain. What fo' yo' stop me wid dat toastin' fork?" "It's all right, Manuel," sung out a voice in Spanish from the lower darkness. "Let the fool nigger come down."
Even as he spoke, fumbling the lock of his gun, that same head observed before suddenly popped over the high rail like Punch at a pantomime. "Vat zat you say, nigger?" its owner cried doubtingly. "Vas it ze olif you haf zare in ze leetle boat?" I eagerly held up into view a choice handful of green fruit, my eyes hopeful. "Oui, Señor Oppercer fresh olibs; same as ob your lan'."
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