I shook my head energetically, rendering as prominent as possible the whites of my eyes, at which he grinned wider than ever.

“No, sah, Mister Oppercer Man; you don’t git dis hyer nigger into no fought, sah,” I protested with vehemence.  “I done fought wid de Injuns onct, sah, an’ I done don’t want no mo’.”

“Veil, you not vorry, boy; you voud be no good on ze war-sheep.  But now you come wis me to ze Capitaine—­bring ze olif.”

Bearing a tempting sample of the Spaniard’s favorite fruit tightly clutched in my black hand, and pulling my battered straw hat lower in concealment of my telltale hair, I made awkward attempt to shuffle along behind him, as he carelessly advanced toward the after part of the vessel.  But I loitered along our passage to examine so many objects of curiosity, asking such a multitude of extremely absurd questions, that we consumed considerable time in traversing even the comparatively short distance to where the rigid sentinel fronted us before the cabin door.  My queries were simple enough to have birth in the brain of a fool, yet my guide was of rare good humor, and evidently so amused at my ignorant curiosity that his patience withstood the strain.  On my part none were blindly asked, but were intended to open a way toward others of the utmost importance.  My sole purpose at that moment was to lull suspicion to rest; when that had been accomplished, then I might confidently hope to pump my trustful victim of such information as I imperatively required.  The ignorant questions of an imbecile will oftentimes be frankly responded to, where a wise man might ask in vain, and my first play was to establish my character as a fool.  That I had succeeded was already evident.

The statuesque guard before the cabin brought his musket up at our approach with so smart a snap as to startle me into a moment’s apparent terror.  To the officer’s request that we be admitted to the presence of the Captain, he responded briefly that that officer had gone forward half an hour before.  My guide glanced about as if uncertain where he had better turn in search.

“Did he go down the hatch?” he queried shortly.

“I know not, Senor Gonzales,” was the respectful reply.  “But I believe he may be with the prisoners’ guard below.”

The officer promptly started forward, and, awaiting no formal invitation, I shambled briskly after, keeping as close as possible to his heels.  Could I gain a brief glimpse below the deck it would be worth more to me than any amount of blind questioning, and my heart thumped painfully in remembrance of what hung upon his movements.  With a single sharp word to the sentry at the hatch he swung himself carelessly over the edge, mysteriously disappearing into the gloom beneath.  That was no time for hesitancy, and I was already preparing to do likewise, when the guard, a surly-looking brute, promptly inserted the point of his bayonet into my ragged garment, accompanying this kindly act with a stern order to remain where I was.