Often and often had I seen Neb run
out on a top-sail-yard, the ship pitching heavily, catching at the
lift; and it was a mere trifle after that, to run out on a spar as
large as the Wallingford's main-boom. A tolerably distinctive scream
from Chloe, first apprised me that the negro was in motion. Looking in
that direction, I saw him walking steadily along the boom,
notwithstanding Drewett's loud remonstrances, and declarations that he
wanted no assistance, until he reached the spot where the young
gentleman stood grasping the lift, with his legs submitting to more
tremour than was convenient. Neb now grinned, looked as amiable as
possible, held out his hand, and revealed the object of his visit.
"Masser Mile t'ink 'e gentleum better gib _me_ Miss Lucy
box"--said Neb, as politely as he knew how.
I believe in my soul that Drewett could have kissed Neb, so glad was
he to obtain this little relief. The box was yielded without the
slightest objection, Neb receiving it with a bow; after which the
negro turned round as coolly as if he were on the deck, and walked
deliberately and steadily in to the mast. He stopped an instant just
at the small of the spar, to look back at Drewett, who was saying
something to pacify his mother; and I observed that, as he stood with
his heels in a line, the toes nearly met underneath the boom, which
his feet grasped something in the manner of talons.
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