"Lemme 'lone, you yaller niggers! turn me loose!" Zack shouted manfully. "I been black all my born days. Ax de Cunnel! Lemme go! lemme go!" Six stalwart Gippies jerked Zack into the open. "Whar's my hat?" he demanded. "An' my grip sack?" The Gippies did not smile—this was their daily job, and had long since lost its humor.
Sergeant Danny shouted a curt order; his Gippies hoisted Zack up the stairway, and rushed him along the narrow deck. He grabbed the rail. A Gippy whacked him over the knuckles; he suddenly remembered how Guinea lost three fingers—and stuck both hands into his pocket. Zack might just as well have argued with a sand-storm. The sergeant nodded; four men shoved him out on that wabbly platform. He caught with both hands for fear of tumbling into the sea. A Gippy cast his grip-sack into the barge, and Zack saw his hat go sailing after. "Turn me loose, yaller niggers; I kin walk."
The steps shook mightily as Zack climbed down. The sergeant nodded; the tug boat cast off her lines and Zack stood bareheaded, gazing up at the Olga's rail. He saw the Colonel struggling through the crowd, trying to reach the sergeant, and Zack yelled, "Here I is, Cunnel! here I is! Stop dis boat. Stop 'er."
The Bloodhound also leaned over the rail, smiled to himself and gave the negro no further
