After he had gone, the cook stood for a time by the galley, looking
pensively at the stars. Long-armed, broad-shouldered, bullet-headed, he
seemed a typical savage. Yet in spite of his thick lips and protruding
chin, his face had a certain thoughtful quality, and not even that deeply
graven scowl could hide the dog-like faithfulness of his dark eyes.

After all, I wondered, was he not like a faithful dog: loyal to the last
breath, equally ready to succor his friend or to fight for him?

"Boy," he said, when he came in, "Ah done fool 'em. Dey ain' gwine believe
no gammon dat yeh Kipping tells 'em--leastwise, no one ain't onless it's
Mistah Falk. Now you go 'long with you and don't you come neah me foh a
week without you act like Ah ain't got no use foh you. And boy," he
whispered, "you jest look out and keep clear of dat Kipping. Foh all he
talk' like he got a mouth full of butter, he's an uncommon fighter, he is,
yass sah, an uncommon fighter."

He paused for a moment, then added in such a way that I remembered it long
afterward, "Ah sho' would like to know whar Ah done see dat Kipping befo'."

I reached the forecastle unobserved, and as I started to climb into my
bunk, I felt very well satisfied with myself indeed. Not even Kipping had
seen me come. But a disagreeable surprise awaited me; my hand encountered a
man lying wrapped in my blankets.

It was Kipping!

He rolled out with a sly smile, looked at me in silence a long time, and
then pretended to shake with silent laughter.