“Heavens!  What! have you got the yellow fever on board at this season of the year?” he inquired of the mate, who had just come aft to inquire about getting some water from the pilot-boat.

“No, we’ve had every thing else but the yellow fever; one might as well bin on a raft as such an infernal unlucky old tub as she is.  It’s the steward, sir—­he’s got a touch of a fever; but he’ll soon be over it.  He only wants rest, poor fellow!  He’s bin a bully at work ever since the first gale.  He’ll mend before he gets to town,” was the reply.

“Ah! then you’ve had a double dose of it.  It gives a fellow bringer off them capes once in a while.—­The steward’s a nigger, isn’t he?” inquired the pilot.

“Nigger!—­not he,” said the mate.  “He’s a Portuguese mixed breed; a kind o’ sun-scorched subject, like a good many of you Southerners.  A nigger’s mother never had him, you may bet your ’davie on that.  There’s as much white blood in his jacket as anybody’s got, only them Portuguese are dark-lookin’ fellers.  He’s no fool—­his name’s Manuel, a right clever feller, and the owners think as much of him as they do of the Skipper.”

“Gammon,” said the pilot to himself.  “What would he think if we were to show him some specimens of our white niggers in Charleston?” And turning, he walked past Manuel with a suspicious look, and took a position near the man at the wheel, where he remained for some time fingering the seals of his watch-chain.  The Captain had gone into the cabin a few minutes before, and coming on deck again, walked toward the place where the pilot stood, and took a seat upon an old camp-stool.

“Cap,” said the pilot, “ye’ll have trouble with that nigger of your’n when ye git to town.  If you want to save yerself and the owners a d—­d site o’ bother and expense, y’ better keep him close when y’ haul in; and ship him off to New York the first chance.  I’ve seen into the mill, Cap, and y’ better take a friend’s advice.”

“Nigger!” said the Captain indignantly, “what do they call niggers in Charleston?  My steward’s no more a nigger than you are!”

“What, sir?” returned the pilot in a perfect rage.  “Do you know the insulting nature of your language?  Sir, if the law did not subject me, I would leave your vessel instantly, and hold you personally responsible as soon as you landed, sir.”

The Captain, unconscious of the tenacity with which the chivalrous blood of South Carolina held language that mooted a comparison of colors, considered his answer; but could see nothing offensive in it.

“You asked me a question, and I gave you a proper answer.  If you consider such a man as my steward—­poor fellow—­a nigger, in your country, I’m glad that you are blessed with so many good men.”