gnus. Also I made sure that the penknife was within instant
reach. Meanwhile my ears, and at cautious intervals my eyes, kept
me informed of the movements of our guards.

For a considerable time the two ruffians, lethargic after an
enormous breakfast, lay about idly in the shade and smoked. As I
listened to their lazy, fragmentary conversation vast gulfs of
mental vacuity seemed to open before me. I wondered whether after
all wicked people were just stupid people--and then I thought of
Aunt Jane--who was certainly not wicked--

As the heat increased a voice of lamentation broke from Chris. He
was dry--dry enough to drink up the condemned ocean. No, he didn't
want spring water, which Cookie obsequiously tendered him; he
wanted a _drink_--wouldn't anybody but a fool nigger know that?
There was plenty of the real stuff aboard the schooner, on the
other side of the--adjective--island. Why had they, with
incredible lack of forethought, brought along nothing but their
pocket flasks? Why hadn't they sent the adjective nigger back for
more? Where was the bottle or two that had been rooted out last
night from the medical stores? Empty? Every last drop gone down
somebody's greedy gullet? The adjectives came thick and fast as
Chris hurled the bottle into the bay, where it swam bobbingly upon
the ripples. Captain Magnus agreed with the gist of Chris's
remarks, but deprecated, in a truly philosophical spirit, their
unprofitable heat. There wasn't any liquor, so what was the good
of making an adjective row? Hadn't he endured the equivalent of
Chris's present sufferings for weeks? He was biding his time, he
was. Plenty of drink by and by, plenty of all that makes life soft
and easy. He bet there wouldn't many hit any higher spots than
him. He bet there was one little girl that would be looked on as
lucky, in case she was a good little girl and encouraged him to
show his natural kindness. And I was favored with a blood-curdling
leer from across the camp, of which I had put as much as possible
between myself and the object of my dread.

But now, like a huge black Ganymede, appeared Cookie, bearing cups
and a large stone crock.

"It suhtinly am a fact, Mistah Chris, sah," said Cookie, "dat dey
is a mighty unspirituous fluidity 'bout dis yere spring watah.
Down war I is come from no pussons of de Four Hund'ed ain't eveh
'customed to partake of such. But the sassiety I has been in
lately round dis yere camp ain't