The discussion became noisy, and apparently endless, interesting me not at all.

Once I detected Kirby's voice chime in mockingly, but altogether the talk brought me no information, and possessed little point.
I had moved away, and was engaged busily scraping at the dingy paint of the pilot house, when a negro, evidently a cook from his dress, came up from the lower deck, bearing a tray well-laden with food in one hand, and disappeared aft.

He did not even notice my presence, or glance about, but I instantly shrank back out Of sight, for I became immediately conscious that someone was closely following him.

This second man proved to be one of the fellows in civilian clothing I had previously noticed at the table below, a tall, sallow individual, attired in a suit of brown jeans, his lean, cracker face ornamented by a grizzled bunch of chin-whiskers.
"Yer wait a minute thar, Jim," he called out, "'til I unlock that thar dore.

I ain't ther kind thet takes chances with no nigger." I recognized the peculiar voice instantly, for I had listened to that lazy drawl before while hidden in the darkness beneath the Beaucaire veranda--the fellow was Tim, the deputy sheriff from St.Louis.