"'Well, the long an' short of it was, I stays aboard the brig, works my spell in her, an' takes my trick at the hellum--but I'm blowed, Jack, if the men 'ud let me sleep in the foc'sle, 'cause I was a black, so I slung my hammock aft with the nigger stoord. D' ye see, I misgived myself a bit when we sank the coast, for, thinks I, it's in Africay as that 'ere blessed mushroom are to be found, to take the colour off me--hows'ever, I thinks it carn't but wear out in time, now I've got out o' that 'ere confounded mess, where, sure enough, things was against me. So at last the v'yage were up, an' the brig got in to New Orleans. There I walks aft to the skipper for to take leave, when says he, wonderfly friendly like, "Now, my lad," says he, "I'm goin' up river a bit for to see a friend as takes a interest in your kind--an' if ye likes, why I'll pay yer passage that far?" In course I agrees, and up river we goes, till we lands at a fine house, where I'm left in a far-handy, ye know, while the skipper an' his friend has their dinner. All at once the gen'lman shoves his head out of a doure, takes a look at me, an' in again--arter that I hears the chink o' dollars--then the skipper walks out, shuts the doure, and says he to me, "Now," he says, "that's a 'cute sort o' tale ye tould me, my lad, but it's a lie, I guess!" "Lie, sir!" says I, "what d' ye mean?" for ye see that 'ere matter o' the iv'ry brig made me sing small at first. "No slack, Pumpey," says he, liftin' his forefinger like a schoolmaster; "ain't yer name Pumpey?" says he. "Pumpey!" says I, "my name's Jack Brown," for that wor the name I'd gived him afore. "Oh!" says he, "jest say it's Gin'ral Washington, right off. Come," says he, "I guess I'd jest tell ye what tripe you belongs to--you're a Mandigy nigger," says he. "It's all very well," he says, "that 'ere yarn, but that's wot they'd all say when they comes, they've been dyed black! Why," says he, "doesn't I see that 'ere brand one night on yer back--there's yer arms all over pagan tattooin'----" "Bless ye, captin," I says, a-holdin' up my arm, "it's crowns an' anchors!" "Crowns!" says he, turnin' up his nose, "what does we know o' crowns hereaway--_we_ ain't barbers yet, I guess"--of what he meant by _barbers_ here, mate, I'm hanged if I knowed. "'Sides," says he, "you speaks broken Aimerricane!" "'Merricain?" I says, "why, I speaks good English! an' good reason, bein' a free-born Briton--as white's yerself, if so be I could ownly clap hands for a minnet on some o' them mushrooms I tould ye on!" "Where does they grow, then?" axes he, screwin' one eye up. "In Africay yonder, sir," I says, "more's the pity I hadn't the chance to lay hands on them again!" "Phoo!" says he, "glad they ain't _here_! An' does you think we 're a-goin' for to send all the way over to Africay for them mushrooms you talks on? Tell ye what, yer free papers 'ud do ye a sight more good _here_!" says he; "it's no use with a