"No, we've had every thing else but the yellow fever; one might as
well bin on a raft as such an infernal unlucky old tub as she is.
It's the steward, sir--he's got a touch of a fever; but he'll soon be
over it. He only wants rest, poor fellow! He's bin a bully at work
ever since the first gale. He'll mend before he gets to town," was
the reply.
"Ah! then you've had a double dose of it. It gives a fellow bringer
off them capes once in a while.--The steward's a nigger, isn't he?"
inquired the pilot.
"Nigger!--not he," said the mate. "He's a Portuguese mixed breed; a
kind o' sun-scorched subject, like a good many of you Southerners. A
nigger's mother never had him, you may bet your 'davie on that.
There's as much white blood in his jacket as anybody's got, only
them Portuguese are dark-lookin' fellers. He's no fool--his name's
Manuel, a right clever feller, and the owners think as much of him
as they do of the Skipper."
"Gammon," said the pilot to himself. "What would he think if we were
to show him some specimens of our white niggers in Charleston?" And
turning, he walked past Manuel with a suspicious look, and took a
position near the man at the wheel, where he remained for some time
fingering the seals of his watch-chain. The Captain had gone into
the cabin a few minutes before, and coming on deck again, walked
toward the place where the pilot stood, and took a seat upon an old
camp-stool.
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