"Wall, I thowt _we_ was pretty smart, and made skippers of our boys in mighty good time, but you beat us. I give in. Ephrim, fetch up them thar papers outer my cabin." A sour-looking fellow with a villainous grin slouched to the little cabin-hatch; and by this time the whole of the boat's crew, including the two blacks, and saving the coxswain, who held on to the chains, were aboard, Tom Fillot scanning the deck eagerly for some sign of the nefarious traffic, but none was visible. "Guessed yew was pirates for a moment, mister," said the skipper. "Yew quite scarred me, and I kim back in a hurry, thinking yew meant robbery on the high seas. Hev a cigar?" He held out a handful, which he had taken from his pocket, and all in the coolest, most matter-of-fact way. "Thanks, no," said Mark. "I don't smoke." "He--he!" laughed the American; "yew needn't be shamed on it. Yewr cap'en don't like it, p'r'aps; but I see yew pulling away at a cigar threw my glass." Mark turned crimson. "Needn't tell a cracker about it, squaire. Here we are," he continued, taking the papers from Ephraim--evidently his mate. "Hev a look at 'em, squaire; but I reckon if one of our officers was to board one of your traders, and ask for 'em, yewr folk'd make no end of a fizzle about it." Mark felt uncomfortable as he took and glanced through the papers, which were all in the most correct style. There was not a point upon which he could seize; and without some grounds he had no right to search the vessel, whose hold looked to be closely battened down, while there was not a sound to suggest that there were slaves on board. "We've made a mistake," he thought, as the writing on the papers seemed to dance before his eyes; "and yet I could have sworn she was a slaver." "Find 'em all right and squaire?" said the American, with his little grey eyes twinkling; and he held out his hand for the papers. "Yes," said Mark, returning them reluctantly, and then glancing at Tom Elliot, whose countenance was a puzzle. "That's right, squaire; that's right. Theer, I shan't cut up rusty, though I might, of course. It was yewr dewty, I s'pose." "Yes, of course," said Mark. "That's right, squaire. Allus dew yewr dewty. I ain't riled. But yew'll trade that barl or tew o' whites flour with me, I reckon, and anything I've got you shall hev. What dew yew say to some Chicago pork? Rale good." "I--a--thank--you, no," said Mark, looking wildly round in the hope of finding some excuse for ordering his men to search the vessel; "but you shall have the flour if I can find it." "That's what I call real civil, mister," said the American, advancing, and backing Mark toward the side, for the lad gave way, feeling that he had no excuse for staying. "Smart schooner that o' yewrn. Guess yew could sail round my old tub. Won't take a cigar?" "No, no: thanks," cried Mark, turning to Tom Fillot. "We can do nothing more," he whispered.