"Ten mile to go, an' they can't catch me with a racehorse," he said,
"after I pass Chicacomico wharf, an' git abaft the marshes. I'm boozy
fur sleep. Thar's two in this crew I don't know, and I must be helmsman.
Bingavast! I'll make my nigger work his passage."
He walked to the hatchway over the hold, and, sliding it back, dropped
in, and, with a few expert blows of the professional smithy, set
Whatcoat free, merely glancing where Phoebus lay upon his face,
snoring hard.
"Cool cucumber of a bloke," Johnson said, "he'll be too much fur me in a
trade; I'll have to stifle him!" Then, ordering the mulatto man astern,
Johnson gave him the tiller, and sat near, nodding, till the second
wharf on the starboard was passed.
"Now Gabriel can't overhaul me," Johnson exclaimed; "thar's no more road
on the Dorchester side, an' the Somerset roads is all gashed by creeks
an' barred by farm-gates. I'll sink that dab an' stiffy."
He called two deck hands, and lifted the body out of the hold. Phoebus
still placidly slept upon his face, and Johnson looked at him with
peculiar envy after a hurried glance at the dead. Some ropes being put
around the bed, and drag-irons attached to them, the whole weight was
unceremoniously thrown overboard at the point of Hungry Neck, and the
dealer remarked, apologetically:
"There goes a great hypocrite, gentlemen; he wasn't above piracy, ef he
could git another man to fly the black flag for him.
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