Cookie did wonders with the
pigs that were shot and brought in to him, though I never could sit
down with appetite to a massacred infant served up on a platter,
which is just what little pigs look like,
"Jes' yo' cas' yo' eye on dis yere innahcent," Cookie would
request, as he placed the suckling before Mr. Tubbs. "Tendah as a
new-bo'n babe, he am. Jes' lak he been tucked up to sleep by his
mammy. Sho' now, how yo' got de heart to stick de knife in him,
Mistah Tubbs?"
It was significant that Mr. Tubbs, after occupying for a day or two
an undistinguished middle place at the board, had somehow slid into
the carver's post at the head of the table. Flanking him were the
two ladies, so that the Land Forces formed a solid and imposing
phalanx. Everybody else had a sense of sitting in outer darkness,
particularly I, whom fate had placed opposite Captain Magnus.
Since landing on the island, Captain Magnus had forsworn the
effeminacy of forks. Loaded to the hilt, his knife would approach
his cavernous mouth and disappear in it. Yet when it emerged
Captain Magnus was alive. Where did it go? This was a question
that agitated me daily.
The history of Captain Magnus was obscure. It was certain that he
had his captain's papers, though how he had mastered the science of
navigation sufficiently to obtain them was a problem.
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