"Cook," says I, "it's a kind of copper-colored vacation when you look at it right—reg'lar rations and nothin' to do."
"It ain't like New Bedford," was all he'd say; and the same I could n't deny.
But I'd picked up their lingo till I could convairse fair and free like a genteel Tappyappyocan, passin' the time o' day with the best of 'em. But the Cook was diff'rent; he had a wife and little kids at home, and there was n't any way of hearin' from them. He had been the darkest darky on the islands, but he faded to the shade of a chaplain's every-day coat at the end of a long cruise. I felt sorry for him.
So one clay, though I had an invitation to play tenny-tenny hop-hop—which, queerly enough, was n't unlike tennis and hop-scotch mixed up together—I politely begged off, and piloted the Cook down to the "sad sea waves" (as I once heard a sweet-singin' young woman remark).
"Cooky," says I, "you are most shockin' pale, and unstiddy upon your pins. Are you land-sick?"
"Ter tell de trufe, sah," says he, pipin' his eye, "I am wantin' powerful to git back ter ole New Bedford; and I don't see dat dese oncivilized colored pussons are goin' ter let us go."
"Well, cheer up," says I; "for I 've calculated a course that ought 'er fetch us clear."
I made out a chart of my idee, and the black Cook he "yah-yahed" till he reminded me of a fancy hyena what I once seen in a cirkis. But it was no wonder.
The way of it was this: the chief of the Tappyappyocans was goin' to give a big blow-out—a regular plum-duff and soft-Tommy spread: plenty o' the best, and charge it to the steward; and he set great store by makin' a show for reasons that I happen to know. That's what made me think of my plan, and that's why the Cook grinned.
