"Stand your hands thar, boys; thar's somethin' wrong on that packet or I'm a jack-rabbit. Seems to me we're prancin' down too rapid an' heedless on that ere outfit. We're liable to overplay our hands if we don't go some slower," said Broncho solemnly, as with knit eyebrows he watched the nearing whaleship.
"Maybe it's the phantom ship or the haunted whaler, quien sabe?" remarked Jack. "Anyhow, it's better than cruising off the Horn in a life-buoy. Que quieres hombre, Broncho—cross the road and let 'em go by, or politely inquire if they've got measles aboard?"
"That's all right, that'll go for humour this time," retorted Broncho, with keen irony.
"S'pose they have got somethin'," put in Jim. "Berri-berri, or scurvy, or Java fever——"
"Go it, Jim," laughed the rover. "What else? Plague, eh? And leprosy? Or I have it—Yellow Jack, of course; that would account for the yellow, blotchy faces."
"I ain't s'picious o' no malady," asserted Broncho. "No, it's ambushes or some sech cawpse-makin' plays I'm some doobersome of; an' I'm allowin' we-alls had better have our bowies out when we meets up with them speckled parties. They shore looks to me like redskins painted for war."
"Why, they're Kanakas!" declared Jack, as they got nearer.
"What breed o' dawg are Kanakas?" asked Broncho.
"South Sea Islanders."