“Well, I wuz frightened, an’ I thought you wuz goin’ to whale me.”
“How were you goin’ to cook them chickens?”
“I wusn’t goin’ to cook ’em.”
“You wasn’t! What, then, goin’ to sell ’em?”
“No, I wuz goin’ to eat ’em raw!”
“My God, Jacob,” exclaimed the farmer’s wife, “the poor boy’s starving! Can’t you see the wolfish look in his eye?”
Tom glared and looked as famished as he could.
“Look ’ere,” cried the farmer, “where is this cove Smith’s place on the Richmond?”
“It’s about Lismore,” said Tom, readily, “at the beginning of the Big Scrub. Ain’t you ever been there?”
“No,” said the farmer, still keeping a firm grip of the pirate’s coat collar, “an’ I doubt if you ’ave either. How did you get down to Lismore?”