“Now I be’n trained to respec’ white folks—­what is white folks—­ever sence I bawn; but w’en I think ’bout Jack in dere, hahf dead, mebbe, dat Limey don’t look none too white to me.  I take a runnin’ staht an’ but ’im in de belly wid my haid.

“De nex’ do’ was locked, an’ I bus’ hit down.  Dere was Jack, ’bout hahf done f’.  Blood all over de fla’.  Ev’thing in de room busted up an’ tipped over.  I hauls ‘im to a back do’, but hit locked.  I kick out a winder, heaves ‘im onto my shoulder, an’ runs back to de ship.

“Wen we comes up, dere was de cap’m standin’ at de rail.  His blue eyes look lak he love to kill us.

“‘Fall in!’ he says, an’ we does.  ‘Go for’d,’ he says, an’ we goes.

“‘Now’ he says, wat’s all dis about?’

“‘Well,’ says Jack, ‘I didn’t staht no fight.  I jes’ goes into a saloon, peaceful like, an’ a damn Limey says, pointin’ to a British flag on dere own ship, ‘You see dat flag?’

“‘Aye,’ says Jack, ‘an’ still I don’t see nuthin’.’

“‘I be’n over de seven seas,’ says de Limey, ‘an’ I see dat ol’ flag mistress of all of ’em.’

“‘You be’n around some,’ says Jack, ‘but I done a li’l sailin’ mahse’f.  Fust place I went was to France.  Grass look lak hit need rain,’ (So he tells dat Limey what he done fo’ hit).

“‘Nex’ I goes to Germany,’ he says; ‘ground no good; need fer’lizer.’  (So he tells ’im what he done on German soil).

“Atter dat I ships fo’ England,’ Jack tells de Limey, lookin’ ’im straight in de eye.  ’Fust thing I see w’en we land is dat British flag w’at you be’n braggin’ so loud about.’ (So he tells dat Limey w’at ’e used de flag fer).

“‘Fore God, Cap’m,’ says Jack, ‘dat Limey lan’ on me wid bofe feet ’fore I say anotha word.  Nevah got in one lick.  Fack is, Cap’m I ain’t be’n doin’ no fightin’ sence I done lef’ dis here ship.”

“‘Go below,’ says de cap’m ‘an’ clean yo’se’f up.  Dis de lahst time you two gwine git shore leave on dis trip.’  He try to look mad, but I see he wantin’ to lahf.

“De nex’ day,” Uncle Dave finished, with a whimsical smile, “I see de bos’n readin’ in de paper ’bout de war ‘twixt America an’ England.  Hit was ‘bout our li’l war—­what dey stahted an’ we finished.”

The dusky old veteran of many battles unwrapped the small piece of black tobacco in the soiled handkerchief, decided on conservation, and slowly wrapped it up again.

“Nex’ comes orders from de admiral in Hong Kong to sail fer Rio Janeiro.  W’en we drop anchor, dere was some o’ da meanes’ lookin’ wharf rats I evah see.  Killers, dey was, willin’ to knock anybody off, any time, fer a few cents.  We lines up fer shore leave, but dey mek Jack an’ me stay on de ship.  Our rucus in Panama done got us in bad wid de cap’m.  But Ah reckon hit was fer de bes’.  One of our men come back wid a year cut off an’ a busted nose.  ’Nother one neveh come back at all.