to fill up dat Odok nigger, you got to git somebody to he'p Side ketch fish. An' 'low me a extry cook. One man can't 'tend to no catfish stan' de way dese niggers does deir tradin'."
"Very good. I'll give you competent help." Mr. Bim promptly settled the matter, and Zack composed himself for a long rest. But the Bimbashi was not a man who rested. Excess of steam kept him shoving ahead. He set everybody to ransacking the quarters and commissary for more fishing tackle—hooks and leads, corks and sinkers. "Everything must be ready by daylight." And everything was ready—likewise Mr. Bim.
Long before daylight McDonald, with a lantern, bent over Zack's cot and shook him, not roughly, but effectually. "Who dat? You? Mister Bim?"
"Yes. Get up. It's time to go after the fish."
"Lordee, Mister Bim, I jes' dis minute dozed off." Nevertheless Old Reliable got up yawningly, and fared forth with the fishers.
At sunrise McDonald went to the fields, his face glowing like the dawn, for Odok brought forty-seven men who were eager to grab the plow handles, a somewhat disappointing number, but forty-seven more than McDonald had mustered for many a week. When evening came, this weary vanguard of honor lined up at the catfish counter, with double as many for an audience.
