We must have looked kind of funny to a bystander. Three backs against that post, and three sets of legs stretching in all directions on the ground—kind of like some new kind of a spider.
But it wasn’t funny to us, or to me at any rate. I was scairt. I don’t know what Mr. Dunn was besides mad. He was so full of that, I guess, that there wasn’t much room for anything else. Catty didn’t say a word, and I couldn’t stretch my neck far enough to see his face. He wasn’t the kind to keep quiet long, though.
“My,” says he after a while, “isn’t this adventure working out first class!”
“Eh?” says Mr. Dunn.
“Better than a book,” says Catty. “I never heard of the mutineers seizing everybody, and tying them to a tent pole. It makes it a lot harder.”
“What?”
“Why—circumventing the mutineers. Generally the faithful party is barricaded on the poop deck or in a stockade or something. They always have arms. But look at us! We’re caught and tied and helpless. It’s—it’s wonderful.”
“Say, young man, are you crazy?”
Catty answered like he thought Mr. Dunn must be crazy. “Aren’t you enjoying it?” says he, like he was surprised almost to death.
“I’m enjoying it like an attack of rheumatism,” says Mr. Dunn.