"On board," splutters Joe, striking another match, "there was a turr'ble
fellow--Jack Armstrong--six foot five in socks, strong's a lion, brave's
a tiger. He and me use to fight--every day, pretty near. Bang! crack!
g-r-r-r-r-r! I used to beat him--easy! I was turr'bly strong. Make's
nose bleed--bung's eyes up--split's lips. Ess! And there was a mulatto
aboard. Metsi-metsi-metsi-can, he was."
"He means Mexican," whispers Mr. Wells behind his hand. "That's what Joe
means. A Mexican." And then he gets up from his chair and shouts into
Joe's ear, "You mean a Mex-i-can, Joe."
"Ess; a Metsican," splutters Joe, getting purple in the face under the
impression of a contradiction. "That's what I said--Metsican. Used to
call him Black Peter. I've seen him eat rattlesnake. Swallow him clean
down. Like this, he would--_Gollop!_" Here Mr. Wells goes off into a
quiet chuckle of scepticism, one finger crooked over his pipe-stem, his
sightless eyes blinking at the coals. "Great big bull of a feller.
'Normous chest. Legs o' granite. Used ter fight wi' bar o' iron. Ho! Ho!
Weighed half a hunded. Tremenjus weapon! If he hit you, you
know--_dash_!--out go your brains. Ho! ho! He was fond o' me. If I saw
him sulky, or anythin', up I'd go, an' 'What's matter?' I'd say. Peter'd
say, 'So-a-so.
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