The other white man and the negroes were a bad lot,
and given to viciousness, but Monson ruled them with a heavy fist. He
hadn't been three hours away from the river before he was banging a
negro with a board, the others looking on and grinning. He was
spanking him, in a way. He ran to me with tears in his eyes. "I'll
throw that nigger overboard!" he shouted, dancing about, and shortly
after he appeared to have forgotten the matter. I thought I should
get along with him, but I thought I'd have to keep cool and calm in
dealing with him. He was such a man as it seemed better to be
acquainted with in a big open space where there was room for him to
explode. He was apt to be either gay or outrageous, and that about
any little thing. He was simple and furious and very hearty, and that
all made him good company. The negroes looked murderous, and the
other white man shifty and dirty, but he was a competent seaman.
Three weeks later we passed Tobago and were looking for Clyde's
little island. We dropped anchor there one evening about eight
o'clock. The moon was high and the sea bright. It was sixteen years
since I'd seen that shore last, the night I rowed old Clyde up the
inlet, and we buried his canvas bags.
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