“You got-um bad mans!” asserted the chief again.
“One mans,” admitted Rob. “Maybe so good mans; we don’t know.”
“Where you comes?” asked the chief, presently, looking about him. “This my house here. White mans come here now?”
Rob did not think it best to admit that they were castaway and lost on these distant shores, so he determined to put on a bold front.
“Heap hunt here,” he said, pointing to the meat and the hides stretched on the ground. “Kill three bear. Catch-um plenty fish. By-and-by schooner come.”
“When schooner come?” asked the chief, with a cunning gleam in his eye.
“Pretty soon, by-and-by,” said Rob, sternly. “Plenty white mans come pretty soon.”
The chief was not to be balked of his purpose, and kept edging toward the door of the barabbara. “Kill-um bad mans,” he muttered. “Him steal.”
Rob, seeing that he was bent on this, and unable to dissuade him from his certainty that the fugitive was inside the hut, for the moment scarcely knew what to do.