“Well, whaduz he wave his dam' fool arms for?” growled Kitchell, angry because something was going forward he did not understand.
“There, he's shouting again. Listen—I can't make out what he's yelling.”
“He'll yell to a different pipe when I get my grip of him. I'll twist the head of that swab till he'll have to walk back'ard to see where he's goin'. Whaduz he wave his arms for—whaduz he yell like a dam' philly-loo bird for? What's him say, Charlie?”
“Jim heap sing, no can tell. Mebbee—tinkum sing, come back chop-chop.”
“We'll see. Oars out, men, give way. Now, son, put a little o' that Yale stingo in the stroke.”
In the crow's nest Jim still yelled and waved like one distraught, while the dory returned at a smart clip toward the schooner. Kitchell lathered with fury.
“Oh-h,” he murmured softly through his gritted teeth. “Jess lemmee lay mee two hands afoul of you wunst, you gibbering, yellow philly-loo bird, believe me, you'll dance. Shut up!” he roared; “shut up, you crazy do-do, ain't we coming fast as we can?”
The dory bumped alongside, and the Captain was over the rail like quicksilver. The hands were all in the bow, looking and pointing to the west. Jim slid down the ratlines, bubbling over with suppressed news. Before his feet had touched the deck Kitchell had kicked him into the stays again, fulminating blasphemies.
“Sing!” he shouted, as the Chinaman clambered away like a bewildered ape; “sing a little more. I would if I were you. Why don't you sing and wave, you dam' fool philly-loo bird?”
“Yas, sah,” answered the coolie.