The second day
of his imprisonment he received a loaf of bread in the morning, and
a pint of greasy water, misnamed soup. That was the allowance when
they did not take meat. He ran down-stairs with the pan in hand,
raising an amusing fuss, pointing at it, and spitting out his Creole
to the jailer. He was disputing the question of its being soup, and
his independent manner had attracted a number of the prisoners. Just
at the moment, the prison dog came fondling against his legs, and to
decide the question, quick as thought, he set the pan before him;
and as if acting upon an instinctive knowledge of the point at
issue, the dog put his nose to it, gave a significant scent, shook
his head and walked off, to the infinite delight of the prisoners,
who sent forth a shout of acclamation. Baptiste left his soup, and
got a prisoner, who could speak Creole, to send for his captain, who
came on the next morning and made arrangements to relieve his
condition from the ship's stores. The following day he whipped one
of the jailer's boys in a fair fight; and on the next he killed a
duck, and on the fourth he cut a white prisoner. Transgressing the
rules of the jail in rejecting his soup-violating the laws of South
Carolina making it a heinous offence for a negro to strike or insult
a white person--committing murder on a duck--endeavoring to get up a
fandango among the yard niggers, and trying the qualities of cold
steel, in a prisoner's hand, thus exhibiting all the versatility of
a Frenchman's genius with a youthful sang-froid, he was considered
decidedly dangerous, and locked up for formal reform.
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