my freedom better."

Big Chief pondered this for some time, and shook his head slowly, as if
the result of his meditation was not satisfactory.

"Jowin," he resumed, after a pause, "sing me a song."

"Well, you _are_ a queer codger," said Jarwin, laughing in spite of
himself; "if ever there was a man as didn't feel up to singin', that's
me at this moment. Howsomedever, I 'spose it must be done. Wot'll you
'ave? `Ben Bolt,' `Black-eyed Susan,' `The Jolly Young Waterman,' `Jim
Crow,' `There is a Happy Land,' or the `Old Hundred,' eh? Only say the
word, an' I'll turn on the steam."

Big Chief made no reply. As he appeared to be lost in meditation,
Jarwin sat down, and in a species of desperation, began to bellow with
all the strength of his lungs one of those nautical ditties with which
seamen are wont to enliven the movements of the windlass or the capstan.
He changed the tune several times, and at length slid gradually into a
more gentle and melodious vein of song, while Big Chief listened with
evident pleasure. Still there was perceptible to Jarwin a dash of
sadness in his master's countenance which he had never seen before.
Wondering at this, and changing his tunes to suit his own varying moods,
he gradually came to plaintive songs, and then to psalms and hymns.

At last Big Chief seemed satisfied, and bade his slave good-night.

"He's a wonderful c'racter," remarked Jarwin to Cuffy, as he lay down to
rest that night, "a most onaccountable sort o' man. There's sumthin'
workin' in 'is 'ead; tho' wot it may be is more nor I can tell. P'raps
he's agoin' to spiflicate me, in consikence o' my impidence. If so,
Cuff, whatever will became o' you, my poor little doggie!"

Cuffy nestled very close to his master's side at this point, and whined
in a pitiful tone, as if he really understood the purport of his
remarks. In five minutes more he was giving vent to occasional mild
little whines and half barks, indicating that he was in the land of
dreams, and Jarwin's nose was creating sounds which told that its owner
had reached that blessed asylum of the weary--oblivion.

Next day our sailor awakened to the consciousness of the fact that the
sun was shining brightly, that paroquets were chattering gaily, that
Cuffy was still sleeping soundly, and that the subjects of Big Chief
were making an unusual uproar outside.

Starting up, and pulling on a pair of remarkably ancient canvas
trousers, which his master had gra