Chapter II.
UNDER THE TAMARIND TREE.
It was very dark in the scrub, and the new moon had set. The flying foxes squealed in the wild fig trees, and Tom Pagdin, sitting under the tamarind heard a night owl complaining mournfully.
The hollow hoot of the owl sent a shudder down Tom’s spine, because it was unlucky to hear an owl in the dark of the moon.
Away off on the flats the curlew called, wild pathos in his cry.
The scrub, close-matted and tied by many vines, was cool and pleasant in the daytime; but at night its overhanging canopy of vegetation shut out the stars, and one walked beneath in an eerie gloom that was wearing on the strongest nerves.
Tom waited and waited until it was almost eight o’clock.
He was restless and uneasy. Half the joy of his proposed expedition would be gone if Dave did not turn up. There is no fun in the pirating business without a mate; it becomes lonesome and monotonous. Tom had just decided to take it out of Dave for breaking his promise, when he heard a noise somewhere off at the other side of the scrub.
He put his ear to the ground, bushman fashion, and listened.
It was Dave whistling loudly. Dave had no more idea of tune than a milch cow; he made up what he whistled as he went along.