He lifted the struggling but utterly helpless form of the pirate over his shoulders, then, with a sudden stooping movement, he made as if to plunge it into the sea.
"Help! Help!" cried Pauline, running up the deck.
Hicks and Owen rushed from their staterooms. Blinky Boyd was quivering, gasping beside the rail. They found a slouching, uncommunicative cook stolidly washing dishes in the galley.
Some hours later while Boyd was sleeping off his potations and Hicks and Owen were deep in conference on deck, Pauline slipped down into the galley ostensibly to explain the rudiments of the culinary art to the cook.
"The trouble is you have no respect for a potato, Filipo. You slash the poor thing to pieces, and then you boil it only long enough to hurt its feelings."
"Peel potato nice, good," he apologized. "Then peel 'um pirate.
Filipo want to peel pirate; boil him just half-hurt him feelings.
That's how."
"Oh, I see. But I think you do Mr. Boyd a great injustice, Filipo. He has consented to come all the way from New York with us and take command of our boat and find the buried treasure, and—"
"Buried potatoes," snapped Filipo with a sudden reversion to his unimpaired English.
"Well, at least you understand about tomorrow's breakfast now, don't you?"
"Yes, mem. Boil 'um eggs to death; no peel 'um."