black skin for to claim white laws; an' what's more, ye're too tarnation ugly-faced for it, let alone colour, Pumpey, my man," he says. "I tell ye what it is, Captin Edwards," says I, "my frontispiece ain't neither here nor there, but if you calls me Pumpey again, blowed an' I don't pitch inty ye!"--so with that I handles my bones in a way as makes him hop inside the doure--an' says the skipper houldin' it half-shut, "Harkee, lad," he says, "it's no go your tryin' for to run, or they'll make ye think angels o' bo'sun's-mates. But what's more," says he, "nivver you whisper a word o' what ye tells me, about nuts an' mushrooms, or sich like trash--no more will I; for d' ye see, my lad, in that case they'd jest _hush ye up_ for good!" "Who d' ye mean?" I says, all abroad, an' of a shiver like--mindin' on the slave-schooner again. "Why, the planter's people," says he, "as I've sold ye to." An' with that he pints into his mouth, and shuts the doure. "'Well, mate, ye may fancy how I feels! Here I stands, givin' a look round for a fair offing; but there was bulwarks two fadom high all round the house, a big bloodhound lyin' chained, with his muzzle on his two paws, an' nobody seem'd for to mind me. So, I see'd it were all up wonst more; an' at the thou't of a knife in my tongue, I sits right down in the far-handy, rig'lar flabbergasted, when out that 'ere blasted skipper snoots his head again, an' says he, "Pumpey, my lad, good-day," says he; "you knows some'at o' the water, an' as they've boat-work at times hereaway, I don't know but, if you behaves yerself, they'll trust you with an oar now an' then: for I tould yer master jist now," says he, "as how you carn't speak no English!" Well, I gives him a hoath, 'cause by that time I hadn't a word to throw at a dog; and shortly arter, up comes the overseer with his black mate, walks me off to a shed, strips me, and gives me a pair o' cotton drawers and a broad hat--so out I goes the next mornin' for to hoe sugarcane with a gang o' niggers.