The tiny hull had torn like brown paper, and part of the cause—a stiff branch of gun-wood—still protruded from the hole.
"We're in Sanders's territory, if it's all the same to you," said Jim gloomily. "The damnation old Frenchi river is in spruit and we've come about eighty miles on the wrong track."
Coulson, kneeling by the side of the boat, a short, black briar clutched between his even white teeth, looked up with a grin.
"'Sande catchee makee hell,'" quoted he. "Do you remember the Chink shaver who used to run the Angola women up to the old king for Bannister Fish?"
Jim said nothing. He took a roll of twist from his pocket, bit off a section, and chewed philosophically.
"There's no slavery outfit in this packet," he said. "I guess even old man Fish wouldn't fool 'round in this land—may the devil grind him for bone-meal!"
There was no love lost between the amiable adventurers and Mr. Bannister Fish. That gentleman himself, sitting in close conference with Ofesi not fifty miles from whence the Grasshopper lay, would have been extremely glad to know that her owners were where they were.
"Fish is out in these territories for good," said Jim; "but it'll do us no good—our not bein' Fish, I mean, if Sandi comes nosing round lookin' for traders' licences—somehow I don't want anybody to inspect our cargo."
Coulson nodded as he wielded a heavy hammer on the damaged plate.
"I guess he'll know all right," Jim went on. "You can't keep these old lokalis quiet—listen to the joyous news bein', so to speak, flashed forth to the expectant world."