Prince made this up as he went along, pronouncing his words with much gravity, and it had such an effect on Cornwallis that we had all we could do to keep from roaring right out. We had to look solemn, though, or he would have smelt a rat. He stood with his back against the wall, rolling up the whites of his eyes and looking around in a scared way as if he didn’t know whether the whole thing was a joke or not. Finally he said: “Cap’n Pratt, I axes you, sah, ef what dat niggah done read is wrote down in dat book, or is I bein’ made a wictim ob what dey calls de cu’cumstances?” “It’s all down in cold type, Cornwallis, and now we must put you to the test, so as to know if you’re guilty.” “What test am dat, sah?” “Why, we must hang a grindstone round your neck and heave you overboard. If you didn’t steal the brandy, you’ll float. That’s what the book says.” The cook’s jaw dropped, and he fell down in a heap. Throwing his arms around Pratt’s knees, he gasped: “Does yo’ mean dat, Cap’n?” Pratt nodded. “Oh, fur de good Lawd’s sake, what hab dis pore chile done dat he mus’ be kilt in cole blood! Ain’t I sarved you, sah, fur one, two, six,—wahl, seberal yeahs? An’ now is yo’ gwine to let dat blood-thu’sty niggah what’s been hankerin’ arter my life—is yo’ gwine to let him murdah me?” “I feel sorry for you, Cornwallis,—d—n me if I don’t,—but there’s no help for it. The book says the craft will never reach port if the guilty person escapes, so it’s a case of your going overboard or all of us giving up the ghost.” “Gents, is der no marcy in yo’ buzums?” This piteous appeal was addressed to Warriner and me, and the cook looked so miserable that I could hardly play my part. “No, you must prepare for the ordeal,” said Warriner, “and if you have told the truth you will surely float.” “What, an’ a grin’stone made fas’ to me?” “Certainly.” “Oh, Mass’ Warmer, I’s not ready to die; ’deed I’s not. I’s been powe’ful wicked in my time, an’ dem kin’ o’ people has to jine de chu’ch an’ hab r’ligion ’fore deh heahs de trumpet blow.” “No more fooling. Prince, you bring aft the grindstone that the crew sharpen their knives on. Hunt, you get the fog-horn and blow like h— when we heave him overboard. The d—d thing makes more noise than any trumpet I ever heard.” “Yes,” added Warriner, “It may comfort the condemned.” When we got back with the horn and grindstone, Cornwallis was jumping up and down and yelling like a maniac. “I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! I’s de culprit! An’ ef yo’ drap me overboard dat’s why I’s boun’ to sink! Only lemme lib till we reaches dry lan’ an’ I’ll go into one ob dem conbents whar dey is said to be dead to de worl’, an’ I won’t nebber see none ob yo’ no moah.”