go on to say.--'No,' roar I.--'Nor four leg?'--'No,' again me roar, shaking out my two foot for make him see.--'Nor one tail?'--Here I get mad wid fear, and jump forward wid my drawn bayonet right upon Jack--but, fiz, as if water had been thrown on it, out goes de fire. I nearly stifle wid de smoke, but determined to grapple wid Jack. I tumble all about de hut, but no Jack dere; I try de door--all fast. What shall I do?--he vanish--he must be debil--and I retreat de best way I could, groping along de wall, until I once more get into de corner dat I was leave. 'Oh, my God'' say me Quacco, 'here I sall be murder--or if I be not murder, den I sall be flog for being out of barrick widout leave--Oh, poor me Quacco, poor me Corporal Quacco--oh, to be flog at de triangles would be one comfort, compare wid walk to de hell place in dis fashion!' 'Quacco,' say one voice, it was not Jack voice, 'Quacco.'--'Hillo,' say I, 'who de debil is you next, eh?' No hanswer--den I begin to ruminate again. 'Quacco,' again de voice say.--'Hillo,' again say I, frighten till de sweat hop, hop over my forehead, and den from my chin and de point of my nose,"--("Where may that be?" whispered little Binnacle)--"when it drop down on de floor like small bullets. 'Quacco.'--'Oh, oh, oh!' groan I; for dis time it sound as if one dead somebody was speak out of one hollow coffin, lying at de bottom of one new open grave; 'put you hand at you feet, and see what you catch dere, and eat what you catch dere.' I did so--I find one calabash, wid boil nyam, and piece salt pork dere; I take him up--taste him--wery good--eat him all---why not? 'Quacco,' again say de voice, 'grope for de calabash dat hang against de wall.' I do so--quite heavy--let me see. 'Drink what in him,' again say de debil--'To be sure, Massa Debil,' say I, 'why not?' I taste him--good rum--ah, ah, ah--wery good rum, when flash de fire again blaze up right cheery, but I see no one; so I begin to look about, and de first ting I do was to put down my hand where I had replaced, de calabash at my feet. Mercy Heaven! what I lift? One skull, fresh and bloody, of one dead shild, wid some dirt at de bottom, and some fedders, and de shell of one egg. 'Oh, oh, oh! obeah, obeah!' shout I. And de calabash, what him contain? I pour out some on de fire--blaze, whatever it was--blaze up in my face and singe my hair, oh, wery mosh--make my head smell like de sheep head de Scotch agitant sarvant boil for him massa dinner on Sunday, when him too sick to dine at de mess. 'Dis will never do,' say I Quacco; 'let me see what stuff dis can be I was drink;' and I pour some on de white bench beside de fire. Oh, mammy Juba--O--O--O--_it was blood_! And what is dat small black box I see below de bench? I capsize him. 'Debil,' say I Quacco, 'what him is?' Massa, it was one leetle coffin tree feet long, wid de grave-clothes in him, but green and festering as if de rotting dead picaninny had been new remove.