"That soldier means to shoot." Then I held up a handful of our choicest fruit into view.
"I have got plenty vegetables, an' lot fruit fer sell," I shouted eagerly in negro French, putting all the volume possible into my voice, hopeful my words might penetrate the hidden deck above.

"Plenty 'tatoes, peaches, olibs--eberyting fer de oppercers." "Don't want them--pull away, and be lively about it." It was a moment of despair, every hope suspended in the balance; my heart beating like a trip-hammer with suspense.

The thoroughly enraged guard lifted his gun to the shoulder; there was threat in his eyes, yet I ventured a desperate chance of one more word.
"I got de only _olibs_ on dis ribber." "_Bastenade_!" yelled the infuriated fellow.

"I 'll give you a shot to pay for your insolence." Even as he spoke, fumbling the lock of his gun, that same head observed before suddenly popped over the high rail like Punch at a pantomime.
"Vat zat you say, nigger ?" its owner cried doubtingly.

"Vas it ze olif you haf zare in ze leetle boat ?" I eagerly held up into view a choice handful of green fruit, my eyes hopeful.
"Oui, Senor Oppercer--fresh olibs; same as ob your lan'." The Spaniard was standing upright on the rail by this time, clinging fast to a rope dangling from above, leaning far over, no slight interest depicted upon his pinched, sallow countenance.
"It's all right, sentry," he said sharply to the soldier, who lowered his gun with a scowl indicating his real desire.