"Dogvane, what has the child been doing that you have imprisoned him in this way?" "Why, sir," said Mr Weevil, the purser, "it is a vagary of Lennox's. The child was certainly nearly overboard to-day, so, for fear of accidents, he has chosen to coop him up in this fantastical manner, as if he had been a turkey." "Poo, poo--release him. Here, Dicky, come out, will you?" I undid the latch, and the little fellow crept out on all-fours. As soon as he was at large, he laid hold of the cage, and would have thrown it overboard, if I had not prevented him. "No, no, Master Dicky, it is a good idea of Lennox's; and mind, whenever you are a bad boy, in you go again." "I was not bad boy," said the urchin; "Lennox' big mens were bad boy." "How, Dicky, how?" "Oh, dem shame poor Quacco--see, see, dere." I looked forward, and noticed Quacco coming on deck through the fore-hatchway, a very extraordinary-looking figure certainly. It seemed that our sable friend had missed muster twice running; so the men thought they would fall on a method of curing him; but before they could put it in force, they had to imprison poor little Dicky, who was much attached to the negro, and evinced great grief when they commenced operations. Their plan was this. They got some molasses, and anointed his woolly pate as he slept, and then, with the cook's dredging-box, they plastered the same over with flour, and left him in his hammock, in place of rousing him out to take his morning watch. They thus converted his pate into a regular cockroach trap, for those horrible beetles crowded from all corners of the 'tween-decks, and settling down on the molasses and flour, soon got their feet entangled and their wings besmeared in such a way that they could not start either tack or sheet, but were glued in a living web of abomination to the poor devil's head. I took Dicky in my arms, and Quacco toddled aft. Although I was angry, I could not help laughing at the figure he cut, with his white head, like a large cauliflower, bespangled, not with bees, but with large brown beetles, who were fluttering with their wings, and shaking their long feelers or antennae, and struggling to get their legs out of the bog of treacle and flour; while the poor fellow, half asleep, was as yet in a great measure unconscious of his situation. At this nick, Old Lanyard came on deck. "Who has done this? I say, men, if you make a beast of the poor devil in this way again, mind your hands--that's all. Here, cook, take Quacco into the bows, and let your mate scrub him clean." "Why, we shall have to cut his wool out, sir." "Hair, if you please, Massa Draining," interjected the culprit himself; "sheep hab wool--black gentleman wear hair." "Yes, and he should pay the powder tax," said I, laughing against my will.