"By God--no! He ain't got no human in him. It's hell when English
sailormen has got ter take orders frum a damned nigger, an' be knocked
'round if they don't jump when he barks. He's goin' ter get a knife in
his ribs sum day."

"Maybe he is; but yer better hold yer tongue, Tom. Sanchez don't stand
fer thet talk, an' he's back o' LeVere. Let's go in; them gaskets will
hold all right now--cum 'long."

The two vaguely distinguishable figures disappeared, clambering
awkwardly over the rail, and as instantly vanishing into the blackness
of the bark's deck. An unsecured bit of canvas continued to flap
noisily above me, and the constant surge of water pounded against the
bow, but I could perceive now clearly the character I was destined to
assume when once safely aboard the _Namur_. Such an assumption would
involve but slight danger of discovery. It was as though a miracle had
opened the way, revealed to me by the unconscious lips of these two
half-drunken, gossiping sailors. The story told fitted my necessities
exactly. Had I planned the circumstances myself, nothing could have
been better prearranged. No one on board had seen the missing man by
daylight; if an impression of his features remained in any individual
mind, it must be extremely vague, and valueless. Bill's conviction
that the man was English, and probably a sailor, was the most
definite, and he had had greater opportunity closely to observe the
stranger than anyone else. LeVere had obtained no more than a glimpse
of his opponent, during their struggle in the dark, and while fighting
for his life. Surely it would be easy enough to obscure any faint
impression thus acquired. And the fellow had been heartlessly flung
overboard; was believed to have sunk without a struggle, too drunk to