not one to forego an
enterprise lightly because of difficulty or danger, so with dogged
persistency I clung to the water front, knowing nowhere else to go, and
blindly trusting that some happening might open to me a door of
opportunity.

It frequently seems that when a man once comes, in a just cause, to
such mind as this, when he trusts God rather than himself, there is a
divinity which aids him. Surely it was well I waited in patience, for
suddenly another produce boat, evidently new to the trade, deeply laden
with fruit and roots, bore down the river, the two negroes at the oars
pointing its blunt nose directly toward the flag-ship, attracted no
doubt by its superior size. Instantly noting their course I awaited
their reception with interest, an interest intensified by a drawling
English voice from amid the crowd about me, saying:

"I reckon thar'll be some dead niggers in thet thar bumboat if they
don't sheer off almighty soon."

Scarcely were these prophetic words uttered, when the soldier statue at
the head of the boarding-stairs swung his musket forward into position,
and hailed in emphatic Spanish, a language which, thanks to my mother,
I knew fairly well. There followed a moment of angry controversy,
during which the startled negroes rested upon their oars, while the
enraged guard threatened to fire if they drifted a yard closer. In the
midst of this hubbub a head suddenly popped up above the rail. Then a
tall, ungainly figure, clad in a faded, ill-fitting uniform, raised
itself slowly, leaning far out over the side, a pair of weak eyes,
shadowed by colored glasses, gazing down inquiringly into the small
boat.

"Vat ees it you say you have zare?" he asked in an attempt at French,
which I may only pretend to reproduce in English. "Vat ees ze cargo of
ze leetle boat?"

Instantly the two hucksters gave voice, fairly running over each other
in their confused jargon, during which I managed to distinguish native
names for potatoes, yams, sweet corn, peaches, apples, and I know not
what else.

The Spaniard perched high on the rail waved his long arms in
unmitigated disgust.

"_Caramba_!" he cried the moment he could make his voice distinguished
above the uproar. "I vant none of zos zings; Saint Cristoval, non!
non! Ze Capitaine he tole me get him some of ze olif--haf you no olif
in ze leetle boat?"

The darkies shook their heads, instantly starting in again to call
their wares, but the fellow on t