“Agreed!” replied the Colonel with an oath; and the two descended a short ladder, and stood on the lower deck in front of Peek, who was leaning against a green sliding box of stones, used for keeping the boat rightly trimmed. “Wake up here, Peek,” said Hyde, kicking him not very gently; “here’s my friend, Mr. Vance, come ter see yer.” The slave started, and his eyes had a lurid glitter as they turned on Hyde; but they opened with a wild and pleased surprise as they caught the quick, intelligible glance of Vance, whose right hand was pointing to an inner pocket of his coat. The change of expression in the slave was, however, too subtle and evanescent for any one except Vance himself to recognize it; and he was not moved by it to take other notice of the negro than to imitate the Colonel’s example by pushing Peek with his foot, at the same time saying, “I wish I had you on a sugar-plantation down in Louisiana, my fine fellow! I’d teach you to run away! You wouldn’t try it more than once, I’m thinking.” “Look he-ah, stranger,” exclaimed Peek, rising to his feet, with a look of savage irritation, and clenching his fists, in spite of the irons on his wrists, “you jes’ put yer foot on me agin, and I’ll come at yer, shoo-ar!” “You’ll do that, will you,” said Vance, laying both hands on the slave’s throat, shaking him, and muttering words audible to him only. Peek, seeming to struggle, thrust his fettered hands into the bosom of his antagonist, as if to knock him down; but Vance pushed him up against the bulwarks of the boat, and held him there, with his grasp on his throat, till the slave begged humbly for mercy. Vance then let him go, and turning to Colonel Hyde, with perfect coolness, said, “That’s the way to let a nigger know you’re master.” To which the Colonel, unable to repress his admiration, replied: “I see as how yer understand ’em, from hide to innards, clar’ through. A nigger’s a nigger, all the world over. Now let’s liquor.” They went to the bar, around which a motley group of smokers and drinkers were standing. The bar-keeper was a black man, and between him and Vance there passed a flash of intelligence. “What shall it be, Mr. Vance?” asked the Colonel. “Gin for me,” was the reply. “Make me a whiskey nose-tickler,” said the Colonel, who seemed to be not unfamiliar with the fancy nomenclature of the bar-room.