t lived in the firm belief that its
new friends (always excepting Ailie) constantly wished to insult it; and
was afflicted with a chronic state of surprise at the cruelty, and of
indignation at the injustice, of men who could wantonly injure the
feelings of so young, and especially so small a monkey.

When the men called it, it used to walk up to them with calm, deliberate
condescension in its air; when Ailie held out her hand, it ran on its
two legs, and being eager in its affections, it held out its arms in
order to be caught up. As to food, that monkey was not particular. It
seemed to be omnivorous. Certain it is that it never refused anything,
but more than once it was observed quietly to throw away things that it
did not relish. Once, in an unguarded moment, it accepted and chewed a
small piece of tobacco; after which it made a variety of entirely new
faces, and became very sick indeed--so sick that its adopted mother
began to fear she was about to lose her child; but after vomiting a good
deal, and moaning piteously for several days, it gradually recovered,
and from that time entertained an unquenchable hatred for tobacco, and
for the man who had given it to him, who happened to be Jim Scroggles.

Ailie, being of a romantic temperament, named her monkey Albertino, but
the sailors called him Jacko, and their name ultimately became the
well-known one of the little foundling, for Ailie was not obstinate; so,
seeing that the sailors did not or could not remember Albertino, she
soon gave in, and styled her pet Jacko to the end of the chapter, with
which piece of information we shall conclude _this_ chapter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

RENCONTRE WITH SLAVE-TRADERS--ON BOARD AGAIN--A START, A MISFORTUNE, A
GHOST STORY, A MISTAKE, AND AN INVITATION TO DINNER.

On the evening of the second day after the capture of Jacko, as the
canoe was descending the river and drawing near to the sea-coast, much
to the delight of everyone--for the heat of the interior had begun to
grow unbearable--a ship's boat was observed moored to the wharf near the
slave-station which they had passed on the way up. At first it was
supposed to be one of the boats of the _Red Eric_, but on a nearer
approach this proved to be an erroneous opinion.

"Wot can it be a-doin' of here?" inquired Tim Rokens, in an abstracted
tone of voice, as if he put the question to himself, and therefore did
not expect an answer.

"No doubt it's a slaver's boat," re