I sort of gaped after him, and sat down
on my bunk, and wondered why a man like me should have that kind of
trouble, and how soon Monson would take to fooling with his bags, and
find out he owned so much lead pipe. But I heard him banging one of
the negroes, and judged he was cheerful yet. I went up on deck and
lay down on some cordage. Monson left the deck soon after.
I'd calculated on the bags staying under my bunk till we came to New
Orleans, thinking to pass off the two that were doctored on Monson in
a hurry, and then to get out of reach hot-footed. I calculated now
that, as soon as he found his bags had been doctored, he'd mention it
candid and loud, and meanwhile I might as well get my gun in working
shape for trouble. Maybe I might make a bargain with the shifty-looking
white man, and organize an argument as to which should be dropped
overboard, Monson or me. But I hadn't got to the point, when Monson
came lounging up the gangway, still acting apologetic. I judged maybe
he'd stowed away his bags without digging into them. I says:
"Let bygones be, Captain," and he says, "That's right! It's that way."
It was a remarkable thing how friendly and kind we got, hoping there
was no hard feeling.
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