"Mr.
Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head. Any man with brains
and the sense to use 'em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal
lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower."
"Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o' only two cents' wo'th o' brains,
Misto Conlon," grinned the darkey.
Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward. Yet with the
possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send
them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.
Finally, there was a ripple on the water. Then Tom's head appeared; next
his shoulders.
"Conlon!"
"Here, sir."
"Here is one of the bombs. Handle it carefully."
"Trust me, sir."
Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as
carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne. Into
the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a
locker. By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below
again.
"Down dere, aftah mo' death!" grinned the darkey. A colored man can
usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full
confidence.
Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.
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