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āđ€āļ‹āļĩāļĒāļ™ āļŠ āđ€āļ•āđ‡ āļ› 5 35 "Naval officer, sir?" interrogated the boatman. "Did you believe that I intended to let you take possession of this steamer, and run her into a Confederate port, Corny? My name is Passford as well as yours, and I am not a traitor, and don't believe I am a coward. At a time which suited my convenience, I left the Vernon and came on board of the Bronx." There were nine men left in the standing room, including the gentleman in black; they were coarse and rough-looking persons, and not one of them appeared to be the social peer of him who had condemned the firing upon the boat. The skipper remained at the tiller of the boat, and he looked as though he might have negro blood in his veins, though he was not black, and probably was an octoroon. He said nothing and did nothing, and had not used a musket when the others fired. He 216 behaved as though he intended to be entirely neutral. A few drops of negro blood in his veins was enough to condemn him to inferiority with the rude fellows on board of the sloop, though his complexion was lighter than that of any of his companions. "What is the matter now?" asked the prisoner in the ward room, after he had rubbed his eyes for a time.

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