“Do what?” the reporter asked.

“Pipe ’em up—­de bos’n blow a whistle an’ call ’em in t’ fight it out, w’ile de othas watch de fun.  Den day gotta shake han’s, an’ hit done settled.

“Well, Ah see dis here Haiti niggah be a li’l bigger’n me, but Ah figger I gwine gin ‘im a chajnce to staht sump’n de nex’ time.  So atter I takes a couple o’ drinks, I goes down early an’ gits fust in de line.  Sho’ ‘nuff, Rousseau comes up an’ crowds in ahead o’ me.  Ah pushes him to one side, an’ gits ahead o’ him.  He raises his eyebrows, sorta suprised-like, an’ gits ahead o’ me.  I be fixin’ to knock ’im clean ovah de rail, but by dat time, de Cap’m had ’is eye on us.

“‘Pee-e-e-e-p,’ go de whistle; ‘Tay-lor-r-r-r’ de bos’n sing out.

“’Taylor,” I ahnswer.

“‘Come to de mahst.’

“I tells ’em how it was, how I fixin’ to knock dat niggah so far into de Gulf we be thoo eatin’ ’fore he kin swim back.

“’Pipe ‘im up, bos’n,’ says de cap’m.

“Rousseau comes in, and de whole crew wid ‘im, t’ see de fight.  ’Pull off yer shirts,’ says de cap’m, an’ we done it.  ‘Wait,’ says de bos’n; ‘de deck jes’ be’n swabbed down—­why bloody hit up, Cap’m?  How ’bout lettin’ ’em fight on shore?’

“Day was a flatform ‘side a buildin’ nex’ to de water.  Dey all line de rail an’ let us go ashore t’ scrap hit out.  Boy, dat was some fight; We fout ontell we was lak two game roosters—­both tired out, but still wantin’ t’ keep goin’.  We jes’ stan’ dere, han’s on each otha’s shoulders, lookin’ into each otha’s eyes, blood runnin’ down to our toes.  Pretty soon he back off an’ try to rush me.  I side steps, an’ gits in a lucky lick below de heart.  He draps to his knees, an’ rolls ovah on his back, wallin’ his eyes lak he dyin’.

“Dey lay ‘im on de deck an’ souse ‘im wid a bucket o’ water, but he sleeps right on.  De res’ go back to de mess line, all but me—­I wan’t hongry.  De nex’ day I gits in line early, but dey wan’t no Haiti niggah t’ muscle in ahead o’ me.  He kep’ to his bunk mighty nigh a week.”

Judging from the appearance of this feeble old man, one would hardly think that he was once a rollicking scrapper, with ready fists like rawhide mallets.  Old Dave dutifully gives full credit to the law of heredity.

“M’ daddy was six feet six, an’ weighed 248 pounds,” he said proudly.  “Nevah done a hahd day’s wuk in ’is life.”

When pressed for an explanation of this seeming phenomenon, the old man sniffed disdainfully.

“Does stock breeders wit a $10,000-stallion put ’im on de plow?...  Dey called my daddy de $10,000 niggah.”

Uncle Dave sat, stroking his cane for a few minutes, then smiled faintly.  “My mammy was mighty nigh as big, an’ nevah seen a sick day in her life.  Wit a staht lak dat, hit ain’t no wonder I growed up all backbone an’ muscle.”

While there have been many instances of atrocious cruelty to slaves, Uncle Dave believes that other cases have been unduly magnified.  He says that he was never whipped by his master, but remembers numerous chastisements at the hands of Miss Jessie, his young owner, daughter of Pierre Pinckney.