"I s'pose she's gwine dar if she don't go to dat boon where no trab'lers
come back agin," answered Sopsy seriously. "Be you Meth'dis' o'
Bab'tis', Massa Mate?"

"Both, Sopsy."

"Can't be bof, Massa."

"Then I'm either one you like."

"That ain't right, Massa Secon' Mate, 'cordin' as you was brung up,"
said the cook, shaking his head violently, as though he utterly
disapproved of the mate's theology.

"I'm a theosophist, Sopsy."

"A seehossofist!" exclaimed the cook, dropping a plate in his
astonishment. "We don't hab none o' dem on shore in de Souf. I reckon
dey libs in de water."

"No; they live on the mountains."

"We hain't got no mount'ns down here, and dat's de reason we don't
hab none on 'em," added Sopsy as he went to the pantry; but presently
returned with a plate of pickles in one hand and the whiskey bottle in
the other. "Does dem sea-hosses drink whisker, Massa Secon' Mate?"

"They never drink a drop of it."

"Dis colored pusson ain't no sea-hoss, and he do drink whiskey when