On the morning after the attack, therefore, Tom, carrying Singleton's
breakfast to him, told him at length what had occurred in the night,
and dilated on his lack of self-defense should an attack be directed
toward him.
Singleton promptly offered to make him, out of wire, a key to the
galley door, so that he could get what he wanted from it. The cook
was to take an impression of the lock. In exchange, Tom was to fetch
him, from a hiding place which Singleton designated in the forward
house, a bottle of whiskey.
The cook was a shrewd mulatto, and he let Singleton make the key.
It was after ten that morning when he brought it to me. I was
trying to get the details of his injury from Burns, at the time, in
the tent.
"I didn't see or hear anything, Leslie," Burns said feebly. "I
don't even remember being hit. I felt there was some one behind me.
That was all."
"There had been nothing suspicious earlier in the night?"
He lay thinking. He was still somewhat confused.
"No--I think not. Or--yes, I thought once I saw some one standing
by the mainmast--behind it. It wasn't."
"How long was Mrs. Johns on deck?"
"Not long."
"Did she ask you to do something for her?"
Pale as he was, he colored; but he eyed me honestly.
"Yes. Don't ask me any more, Leslie.
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