“So, youse is de guy what was floating about on a chunk uv ice
tryin’ ter be pals wid a poley bear?” said Noddy, with an accent
that betrayed him at once as being from the Bowery, or near it.
Raynor smiled faintly.
“Well, I got bounced off my ship on to that iceberg and came nearly
being a meal for the bear if it hadn’t been for your captain, Terror
Carson, as he calls himself.”
“An’ he’s a Terror, all right, all right, take dat right frum yer
Uncle Dudley,” said Noddy, sinking his voice mysteriously. “I feel
kind er sorry fer youse, fer youse ain’t ther sort as belongs aboard
this wind-jammer. But take it frum me, kid, if yer follers my advice
you’ll git along all right. An’ now let’s put youse ter woik.
“I see old Terror lookin’ this way. Jes’ trim them murphies uv their
packets an’ then I’ll think up suthin’ else fer yer ter do. Gee! I’m
reg’lar Fi’t Averner style all right, wid me valley an’ all.”
Raynor determined to make the best of a bad job. At least Noddy, as
he was called, seemed to be friendly and kind-hearted under his odd
exterior. The young engineer turned up his sleeves and went
valiantly to work. In a few moments Noddy, who had been busy over a
big pan of “scouse,” came to inspect his handiwork.
“Gee!” he exclaimed with scorn, “youse has got a lot ter learn
erbout peelin’ spuds. Youse cut off more pertater than yer do skin.
Do it dis way. Watch me.”
Raynor did better after this lesson, and before long had a big
bucket-full of peeled potatoes that passed even Noddy’s critical
examination.
“We’s ull put ’em on ter cook now,” said Noddy, “one bell has jus
gone and ther old man wants the gang ter git their scoff by five er
clock.”
At this juncture an aged colored man entered the galley. He wore a
white cook’s cap on his head, on which he had scrawled, with ink,
Pompey James, Chief Cook of the _Polly Ann_. Noddy introduced him
with a flourish.
“Pompey, old top,” he exclaimed, “this is der new deputy assistant
bottle washer.”
“Ah’m glad ter meet yer,” said Pompey ceremoniously, “ah hopes yo
all is mo’ circumambulatory in yo’ ways dan dis yar raid haided boy.
Gollyumptions, he shuh do make dis chile’s life bud’ensome at
times.”
Noddy winked and grinned at Raynor. Then he turned suddenly and
looked at Pompey with what appeared to be consternation.
“Gee! what’s dat you got in yer wool, Jupe?” he exclaimed, for the
cook had taken his white cap off so as not to get it dirty during
his culinary operations.
“In mah hair, Noddy?” asked Pompey.
“Yes, sir, in your hair. It’s big and white and round.”
Pompey investigated his wooly poll, scratching it carefully all
over. Of course he found nothing.
“Guess yo’ all am tryin’ ter fool dis chile,” he said, with a
good-natured grin, which showed a double set of white teeth.
“No, I ain’t. On the level, look!” The Bowery boy reached for the
negro’s head and drew from it an egg. It was a simple sleight of
hand trick.
But Pompey stared in amazement at the egg as it lay in Noddy’s palm.
“Land ob Goshen! How dat get dere?” he cried in great astonishment.
“Blessed if I know. Maybe you’re turning into an incubator.”
“Gollyumption!” gasped the negro, “I don’ want ter be no inky
beater, whateber dat may be.”
“Well, take this ege and make a pudding with it, see,” said the
red-headed Bowery youth, holding out the egg in his closed fist. But
when he opened his fingers the egg was gone. Instead there lay a
bright dime on Noddy’s palm.
“Gee whaitakers. Don’t dat beat de Dutch,” exclaimed Noddy, in
apparent astonishment, “queer things seem to be going on here all
the time.”
“Good land ob Beulah! Dis yah galley am voodooed!” yelled Pompey.
“No, sah, I don’ wan’ner touch dat money under no circumstantials.
Dat am witch money, dat am.”
“Oh, very well,” exclaimed Noddy, spinning the coin in the air and
catching it, “I kin use it, Pompey. Gee, it’s great ter be pals wid
de witches.”
“Is yo’ all a witch docto’?” asked Pompey with great awe.
“Sure I am. I’m a regular witch hazel from Witchville. Say,” he
broke off suddenly, “what’s that growing out of this potato?”
He picked up a rotten one that Raynor had cast aside.
“Ain’t nuffin dat I kin see,” mumbled the colored man, much
mystified but refusing to be trapped.
“Well, what d’yer call dis?” and the Bowery lad pulled another dime
out of the tuber. “My goodness, Pompey, youse have got money
scattered everywhere. Here, take this dime. Youse’ll be a rich guy
if youse keeps on.”
Pompey took the dime. He turned it over thoughtfully, bit it and
then said:
“Dat am good money fo’ sho. But ah don’ know but what it’ll turn
inter rats er mice befo’ long.”
Just at that moment Pompey was summoned aft by the captain’s orders,
who wanted to give some directions about his dinner. Noddy turned to
Raynor with a grin.
“I’ve got him fooled to the queen’s taste,” he chuckled. “After I’ve
played a few more tricks on him I’ll have him eating out’n my hand.”
“But what’s the use of scaring him that way?” asked Raynor.
Noddy stared at him. Then he whistled as if in astonishment and
executed a sort of double shuffle.
“Say,” he said in low tone as he concluded, “don’t yer see my game?
Dat old coon is the only friend we’ve got on this boat, and when the
time comes for a getaway we’ll need him.”
“A getaway?” echoed Raynor, “then you want to escape?”
“Do I, say, kid, how’d you like to be tapped on the head in New York
and shanghied on board a craft like dis?”
“You mean you were kidnapped on board?” asked Raynor, staring at the
red-headed youth with whom he now felt a bond of sympathy.
“Surest t’ing you know. Write it in yo’ little book. But I mean ter
get away first chance, you bet. Are you wid me?”
“I certainly am. This schooner is little better than a floating
inferno.”
“All right. Tip us yer mitt. When de time comes dat smoke ull be de
guy ter help us. He ain’t got no more use fer Terrer Carson dan I
have, so fur as I’ve bin able to figger it out.”
The two allies shook hands, but further conversation was barred just
then for Pompey reentered the galley.