“I, sir? Asleep in the cabin, Mr. Atkins. Never knew a thing about it, sir, till this morning. Just for special safety I didn’t have the brig hauled up to the dock yesterday, but let her lay in the stream. ‘Jones, says I, have you seen the nigger this morning?’ ‘No I haven’t, says he, cool as you please. ‘I guess I’ll take a look at him,’ says I, and so I took a biscuit and a can of water, and toted down to the hole where I had the nasty devil tied up, and begod, he was gone! I tumbled up on deck: ‘Jones,’ I shouted, ‘where’s the nigger?’ ‘I don’t know where he is now,’ says he, lazy as a ship in the doldrums. ‘All I know is,’ says he, ‘that I rowed him ashore about midnight, and told him to put for it.’ By ⸺” gasped Captain Bangham, with a frightful oath, “I was so mad that I couldn’t say a word. I just ran into the cabin, and when I came out, Jones wasn’t to be seen.—Hallo, there he is now!” cried the captain, starting to his feet and pointing out of the window to a tall figure lounging along the wharf, and looking at the shipping. The merchant jumped from his chair, threw up the window, and shouted, “Here, you, Jones! Come in here.” The figure looked up nonchalantly, and lounged across the street toward the office. “He’s coming,” said the merchant, purple with excitement, and sinking back into his chair. They waited in silence, and presently the tall figure of the mate was seen in the outer office, through the glass door, lounging toward them. He opened the door in a minute, and came in carelessly, chewing slowly, and nodding once to Mr. Atkins. A tall man, dressed sailor-fashion, in a blue shirt and pea-jacket, with a straw hat set negligently on his head, and a grave, inscrutable, sunburnt face, with straight manly features and dull blue eyes. “Mr. Jones,” said the merchant, his face a deeper purple, but his voice constrained to the calm of settled rage, “this is a fine liberty you have taken. I want to know what you mean by it?” “What do you refer to, Mr. Atkins?” returned the mate, stolidly. “What do I refer to, sir? you know what I refer to. I refer to your taking that man from my brig,” roared the merchant. “Mr. Atkins,” replied the mate, phlegmatically, “Bangham, there, was going to take that poor devil back to Orleans. You don’t mean to tell me that you meant he should do it?” “Yes, sir, I _did_ mean he should do it,” the merchant vociferated. “Then you’re a damned scoundrel,” said the mate, with the utmost composure. Captain Bangham gave a long whistle, and sat mute with stupefaction. Mr. Atkins turned perfectly livid, and stared at the mate with his mouth pursed into an oval hole, perfectly aghast at this insolence, and almost wondering whether he had heard aright. “You infernal rascal,” he howled, springing to his feet the next instant, purple with rage, “do you dare to apply such an epithet to _me_? _You_—to _me_?”