"When I gib de stove fire, den me gib de Cap-i-tan, wid de crew,
some good breakfas," said he with a gleam of satisfaction.

This individual, reader, was Manuel Pereira, or, as he was called by
his shipmates, Pe-rah-re. Manuel was born in Brazil, an extract of
the Indians and Spanish, claiming birthright of the Portuguese
nation. It mattered but very little to Manuel where he was born, for
he had been so long tossed about in his hardy vocation that he had
almost become alienated from the affections of birthplace. He had
sailed so long under the protection of the main-jack of old England
that he had formed a stronger allegiance to that country than to any
other. He had sailed under it with pride, had pointed to its emblem,
as if he felt secure, when it was unfurled, that the register-ticket
which that government had given him was a covenant between it and
himself; that it was a ticket to incite him to good behavior in a
foreign country; and that the flag was sure to protect his rights,
and insure, from the government to which he sailed respect and
hospitality. He had sailed around the world under it--visited savage
and semi-civilized nations--had received the hospitality of
cannibals, had joined in the merry dance with the Otaheitian, had
eaten fruits with the Hottentots, shared the coarse morsel of the
Greenlander, been twice chased by the Patagonians--but what shall we
say?--he was imprisoned, for the olive tints of his color, in a land
where not only civilization rules in its brightest conquests, but
chivalry and honor sound its fame within the lanes, streets, and
court-yards. Echo asks, Where--where? We will tell the reader. That
flag which had waved over him so long and in so many of his
wayfarings--that flag which had so long boasted its rule upon the
wave, and had protected him among the savage and the civilized,