"Cawpse an' cartridge occasion, Jack?" inquired the cowpuncher in his off-hand way.
"Pretty near. Shooting in the South Seas is more noise than business though, sometimes."
"Every tuppeny bust-up is a 'orrible war. One copper-coloured coon with a slit skin will give t'other side a big vict'ry. Some er these Low Islands, howsomedever, is 'most perishin' for long-pig stakes, an' enjoys massacretin' whites now and agen if they gets the chaunce," said Bill Benson.
The afternoon passed in tobacco-smoke and siestas, and with the stars came back Jack's eyesight, which event always seemed to give him renewed life.
"Out of it, Bill," he cried, springing to his feet. "It's my wheel now, and your watch below."
"Them sidelights o' yours is the most mysterious be'aved optics I's ever shipmates with. I think you oughter adopt more drastic measures than them blighted bandages. Them eyes o' yours have run outer oil or somethin', or mebbe wants trimmin'," exclaimed the bosun's mate as he shifted places.
"The nerve's gone wrong somehow."
"It's that 'ere luminary that puts the hobbles on 'em. It was him cold-decked you, Jack," asserted Broncho.
"The moon's responsible for a lot of trouble in this world," said Jack. "You never know the way it will strike you, either. Some people who get moon-struck can only see in the daytime; others get their faces screwed up, and some go half-witted; but I'm hoping that perhaps when the moon changes my eyes will improve."
"Do you really think that, Jack? Oh, I do hope so, with all my heart," exclaimed Loyola earnestly.