"I guess so; I dunno."
"Well, what were your father and mother?"
"I dunno."
"That's funny; but what I want to know is how soon grub will be ready?"
"Right away, senor."
"All right, Filipo; see that there is plenty of it."
"Dod foul my hawser, if this ain't what yer might call pleasant," declared the "pirate," showing his few teeth in a smile that reminded Pauline of the spiles of an abandoned pier.
Pauline was pacing the deck apart from the others, in a pleasant dreaminess scanning the endless azure of the hashed waters. Her thoughts roamed forward and backward—forward to the vague magic land of adventure, where she was to win treasure and delight, fortune and fame; backward to a big, lovely, splendid house in New York City, where a certain tall young man, with brown, unruly hair and shoulders broad as a sheltering wall, must be pining for her.
Some one began whistling in the cabin. Pauline paid no attention to it at first, but as the tune suddenly shifted to the very latest musical comedy air she became interested. Owen never whistled, and Hicks, she imagined, seldom went to the theatres.
The song shifted from whistle to words: