“Dem dat takes sugah is to be made to drink bilge-water an’ nothin’ else, an’ is to larn to take de sun ebery mawnin’ an’ ebenin’.
“Ef you kotch one stealin’ gin, make a rope fas’ to him an’ t’ow him oberboard all day long. Ef he don’t die de fust day, try him ag’in de second.
“Gittin’ away wid w’isky is bery bad. Ef a cook or stoord is foun’ out, he mus’ be drove full o’ marling-spikes till he stops yellin’, eben ef it done kills him.
“But ef one steals brandy,—wahl, der ain’t nothin’ bad ’nough fur him. Brandy is awful hard to make, an’ costs a hun’red dollahs a poun’; so ’tain’t no sort o’ use foolin’ with one dat steals it. De craf’ will sink ef he ain’t took in hand.
“Gib de wicked sinnah time to say his prayers, an’ den h’ist him up an’ down de main stay fou’ times, so his blood circ’lates good. Tie a grin’stone roun’ his neck an’ heave him oberboard, while all han’s prays an’ sings like de bery debil. Ef he sinks he’s guilty shuah, an’ ef he floats, haul ’im aboard an’ tie more weights on top of ’im. Ef he keeps on a floatin’, he’s a innocent man, an’ his wages is to be made biggah. Heah de chaptah ends.”
Prince made this up as he went along, pronouncing his words with much gravity, and it had such an effect on Cornwallis that we had all we could do to keep from roaring right out. We had to look solemn, though, or he would have smelt a rat. He stood with his back against the wall, rolling up the whites of his eyes and looking around in a scared way as if he didn’t know whether the whole thing was a joke or not. Finally he said: “Cap’n Pratt, I axes you, sah, ef what dat niggah done read is wrote down in dat book, or is I bein’ made a wictim ob what dey calls de cu’cumstances?”
“It’s all down in cold type, Cornwallis, and now we must put you to the test, so as to know if you’re guilty.”
“Why, we must hang a grindstone round your neck and heave you overboard. If you didn’t steal the brandy, you’ll float. That’s what the book says.”
The cook’s jaw dropped, and he fell down in a heap. Throwing his arms around Pratt’s knees, he gasped: “Does yo’ mean dat, Cap’n?”
“Oh, fur de good Lawd’s sake, what hab dis pore chile done dat he mus’ be kilt in cole blood! Ain’t I sarved you, sah, fur one, two, six,—wahl, seberal yeahs? An’ now is yo’ gwine to let dat blood-thu’sty niggah what’s been hankerin’ arter my life—is yo’ gwine to let him murdah me?”