sun, but the distance to the river shrank mightily while Zack was trying to conjure up something that might convince the Colonel.
O'Flynn loosed his collar to give him leg-room: "Step lively there."
"I'm a hurryin', white folks, I'm a hurryin'."
Smoke was pouring upward from the gunboat; soldiers, donkey-boys, camel-drivers, all kinds of folks, went running every-which-way, but Zack didn't pay 'em no mind. What he saw was Colonel Spottiswoode pacing back and forth on the outskirts of the crowd, and Zack didn't like the emphatic flap-flap-flap of the Colonel's linen suit, nor the aggressive angle of the Colonel's khaki helmet.
"Dar now!" he mumbled. "Done got my business in a jam. I hadn't oughter did de Cunnel dat way. Ain't I jes' like a fool nigger? Gimme a inch an' I'll ketch hell."
At sight of the approaching procession, Colonel strode forward. Zack had never seen him so outraged.
"Zack, where have you been?" The planter stopped, and, "What the devil is that stuff you've got on your face?"
"Lather, suh—ain't quite got through shavin'."
"You—you—get aboard that boat—quick!"
Mere words were so inadequate that the Colonel didn't swear.
