‘I’ll tell you a fact, then, Mr. Dugdale,’ said he. ‘I was aboard a ship where we buried a man that had murdered a negro in Jamaica. He was a ruffian down to the heels of his yellow feet, sir, with a deal worse on his conscience, in our opinion, than even the blood of a darkey. It was a dead calm when we dropped him over the side with a twelve-pound shot at the clews of his hammock. Down he went; but up he came again, and lay wobbling under the main chains. The captain, not liking such a neighbour, ordered a boat over with a fresh weight for the corpse. It was another twelve-pound shot, and down it took him, as all hands expected. But scarce was the boat hoisted when the chief mate, who was looking over the rail, sings out quietly: “Here’s Joey again.” And _there_ lay the hammock just under the mizzen chains. ’Twas lucky a breath of wind came along just then and sneaked the barque away, for had the calm lasted, the men would have sworn that the body had got hold of the ship and wouldn’t let her move. But as to our being ever able to sink it’--he shook his head, and pointing to the hammock that was now showing like a fleck of foam in the tail of our wake, he exclaimed: ‘It’s the same with Crabb. He’s of the sort that Old Davy will have nothing to do with.’ The boatswain’s pipe shrilled out again; the ceremony was over. The sailors stalked gravely towards the forecastle, the passengers distributed themselves about the poop. ‘Quite worth seeing, don’t you think?’ said Mr. Johnson, coming up to me in the manner of a man fresh from a stage performance that has pleased him. ‘Only let me be sure of my nautical details, and I believe I can see my way to a very pretty article, Mr. Dugdale.’ CHAPTER VIII A STRANGE CARGO