“Who he? De State Souf Ca'lina, vat I know 'bout him, ah? Bring de silver oar when come take my man. Il y a de la malhomme tet‚ dans sou proces,” said Captain Gilliet, turning to his mate. “Avaunt! avaunt!” said the big man with the large whiskers, and they all made a rush at Dusenberry, and drove him over the rail and back to the wharf, where he demanded the assistance of those anxious spectators, for and in the name of the State. It was a right good vaudeville comique, played in dialogue and pantomime. The point of the piece, which, with a little arrangement, might have made an excellent production, consisted of a misunderstanding between an Irishman and a Frenchman about South Carolina, and a law so peculiar that no stranger could comprehend its meaning at first and as neither could understand the language of the other, the more they explained the more confounded the object became, until, from piquant comique, the scene was worked into the appearance of a tragedy. One represented his ship, and to him his ship was his nation; the other represented South Carolina, and to him South Carolina was the United States; and the question was, which had the best right to the little darkie. The spectators on the wharf were not inclined to move, either not wishing to meddle themselves with South Carolina's affairs-wanting larger game to show their bravery-or some more respectable officer to act in command. The little darkie, seeing Dusenberry driven to the wharf, ran to the gangway, and protruding his head over the rail, worked his black phiz into a dozen pert expressions, showing his ivory, rolling the white of his eyes, and crooking his finger upon his nose in aggravating contempt. “Shure, we'll turn the guard out and take ye an' yer ship, anyhow. Why don't yees give the nager up dasently, an' don't be botherin'. An' isn't it the law of South Carolina, be dad; an' be the mortis, ye'd be getting' no small dale of a pinalty for the same yer doin',” said Dunn.