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Updated: May 29, 2025
Turning his eyes from right to left, in his endeavors to understand this unusual odor of luxury, Inkspot perceived the man Garta standing on the other side of the forecastle, with a bottle in one hand and a cork in the other, and, as he looked, Garta raised the bottle to his mouth, threw back his head, and drank. Inkspot greatly disliked this man.
The next morning Inkspot strolled about the wharves of Valparaiso, in company with the two sailors, who never lost sight of him, and he had rather a pleasant time, for they gave him as much to eat and drink as was good for him, and made him understand as well as they could that it would not be long before they would help him to return to the brig Miranda commanded by Captain Horn.
Maka slipped swiftly and softly to the side of the big negro, but he was not quick enough. Inkspot had the neck of the bottle in his mouth and the bottom raised high in the air. But, before Maka could seize him by the arm, the bottle had come down from its elevated position, and a doleful expression crept over the face of Inkspot. There had been scarcely a teaspoonful of liquor left in the bottle.
At last, the horse-dealer proposed to the others, who, he said, knew more about such things than he did, that they should repeat the name of every sailing-vessel on that coast of which they had ever heard for Inkspot had made them understand that his ship had sails, and no steam.
The days and nights went on, and in the course of time the Miranda anchored in the harbor of Valparaiso; and, when this happened, Inkspot determined that now would be his chance to go on shore and get a good drink of whiskey he had money enough for that. He could see the lights of El Puerto, or the Old Town, glittering and beckoning, and they did not appear to be very far off.
Inkspot had one glass, and then another, a third, and a fourth, and then his money gave out at least, the man who kept the shop insisted, in words that any one could understand, that the silver the big negro had fished out of his dripping pockets would pay for no more drinks. But Inkspot had had enough to make him happy. His heart was warm, and his clothes were getting drier.
Moreover, they found out to their full satisfaction where that vessel was going to; for Maka had talked a great deal about Paris, which he pronounced in English fashion, where Cheditafa and Mok were, and the negroes had looked forward to this unknown spot as a heavenly port, and Inkspot could pronounce the word "Paris" almost as plainly as if it were a drink to which he was accustomed.
When this work had been accomplished, the party returned to the Arato, and the captain ordered Inkspot and the prisoner to be brought aft to be tried by court martial. The big negro had been wildly and vociferously received by his fellow-countrymen, who, upon every possible occasion, had jabbered together in their native tongue, but Captain Horn had, so far, said nothing to him.
Inkspot did not understand all this, but he knew it was a threat, and he well understood the language of a blow in the face. After a while he went to sleep, but, if he smelt again the odor of the contents of the bottle, he had no more heavenly dreams. The next day Captain Horn found himself off the convict settlement of Punta Arenas, belonging to the Chilian government.
Inquiries about the deserter would provoke inquiries about the brig, and if Inkspot really wished to run away from the vessel, it would take a long time to find him and bring him back. The right course was quite plain to every one. Having finished the business which brought them there, they must up anchor and sail away as soon as possible.
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