yew meant robbery
on the high seas. Hev a cigar?"

He held out a handful, which he had taken from his pocket, and all in
the coolest, most matter-of-fact way.

"Thanks, no," said Mark. "I don't smoke."

"He--he!" laughed the American; "yew needn't be shamed on it. Yewr
cap'en don't like it, p'r'aps; but I see yew pulling away at a cigar
threw my glass."

Mark turned crimson.

"Needn't tell a cracker about it, squaire. Here we are," he continued,
taking the papers from Ephraim--evidently his mate. "Hev a look at 'em,
squaire; but I reckon if one of our officers was to board one of your
traders, and ask for 'em, yewr folk'd make no end of a fizzle about it."

Mark felt uncomfortable as he took and glanced through the papers, which
were all in the most correct style. There was not a point upon which he
could seize; and without some grounds he had no right to search the
vessel, whose hold looked to be closely battened down, while there was
not a sound to suggest that there were slaves on board.

"We've made a mistake," he thought, as the writing on the papers seemed
to dance before his eyes; "and yet I could have sworn she was a slaver."

"Find 'em all right and squaire?" said the American, with his little
grey eyes twinkling; and he held out his hand for the papers.

"Yes," said Mark, returning them reluctantly, and then glancing at Tom
Elliot, whose countenance was a puzzle.

"That's right, squaire; that's right. Theer, I shan't cut up rusty,
though I might, of course. It was yewr dewty, I s'pose."

"Yes, of course," said Mark.

"That's right, squaire. Allus dew yewr dewty. I ain't riled. But
yew'll trade that barl or tew o' whites flour with me, I reckon, and
anything I've got you shall hev. What dew yew say to some Chicago pork?
Rale good."

"I--a--thank--you, no," said Mark, looking wildly round in the hope of
finding some excuse for ordering his men to search the vessel; "but you
shall have the flour if I can find it."

"That's what I call real civil, mister," said the American, advancing,
and backing Mark toward the side, for the lad gave way, feeling that he
had no excuse for staying. "Smart schooner that o' yewrn. Guess yew
could sail round my old tub. Won't take a cigar?"

"No, no: thanks," cried Mark, turning to Tom Fillot. "We can do nothing
more," he whispered.

"No, sir," said Tom, saluting. "He's too many for us. And yet I could
swear to it."

Disappointed, confused, an