“But,” asked Dave, after consideration, “they might say we oughter gone an’ told about it when we heard ’em plannin’ to do it.”
“Who’s to know we ’eard ’em plannin’?” asked Tom. “Look ’ere, Dave Gibson, it strikes me you better leave things to me, an’ keep your mouth shut, or you’ll put the whole game away. You know as much about this detective an’ pirate business as a dog knows about Sunday.”
“Well,” retorted Dave, “I ain’t frightened, or I wouldn’t be ’ere.”
“No,” replied Tom, magnanimously. “I give you credit for what you deserve, but an ounce o’ discretion’s worth a pound o’ taller, as I heard the old schoolmaster say, an’ you got no discretion to speak of.”
“Anyhow,” replied Dave, in self-defence, “you’re older than me twelve months; but I ain’t funked any more than you ’ave.”
“Ain’t I givin’ you credit for it?” said Tom. “I say, the storm’s breakin.’ It’s gettin’ quite bright out under.”
The rain fell less heavily, the thunder was not so loud and frequent. Gradually the heavy pall of black cloud lifted, and the stars shone out brightly beneath.
As soon as it cleared up and the drip was finished, the lads shinned down the pole, and went back and hid in the lantana again.
Tom said they’d go watches. Dave could have first watch.
It might have been near midnight when Dave woke out of a doze to hear the sound of oars coming up stream.