Mighty fin' razor, ol' man."
Rale found me a tin basin, water, a bit of rag for a towel, and a
small, cracked mirror, in which my reflection was scarcely
recognizable. He was a man of few words, contenting himself with
uttering merely a dry comment on Kennedy, who had dropped back into a
convenient chair, and buried his face on the table.
"Tim's a damn good fellow, an' I never saw him so blame drunk afore,"
he said, regretfully. "Know'd him et Saint Louee; used ter drop in ter
my place. He an' Kirby hed a row, an' I reckon thet's whut started him
drinkin'."
"A row; a quarrel, you mean?" forgetting myself in surprise. "Who's
Kirby?"
"Joe Kirby; yer sure must know him, if yer a river man. Slim sorter
feller, with a smooth face; slickest gambler ever wus, I reckon."
"Why, of course," getting control of myself once more. "We picked him
up, 'long with Tim, down river. Hed two women with 'em, didn't they?
runaway niggers?"
Rale winked facetiously, evidently rather proud of the exploit as it
had been related to him.
"Wal', ther way I understan', they wa'n't both of 'em niggers; however,
that was the story told on board. This yere Joe Kirby is pretty damn
slick, let me tell you. One of 'em's a white gurl, who just pretended
she wus a nigger. I reckon thet even Kirby didn't catch on ter her
game et furst; an' when he did he wus too blame smart ter ever let her
know. She don't think he knows yet, but she's liable fer ter find out
mighty soon.
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