“We aren't selling bacon to deserters,” cried Moran; “and I'll tell you this, you filthy little monkey: Mr. Wilbur and I are going home—back to 'Frisco—this afternoon; and we're going to leave you and the rest of your vipers to rot on this beach, or to be murdered by beach-combers,” and she pointed out toward the junk. Charlie did not even follow the direction of her gesture, and from this very indifference Wilbur guessed that it was precisely because of the beach-combers that the Machiavellian Chinaman had wished to treat with his old officers.
“No hab got bacon?” he queried, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.
“Plenty; but not for you.”
Charlie took a buckskin bag from his blouse and counted out a handful of silver and gold.
“I buy um nisi two-piecee tobacco.”
“Look here,” said Wilbur deliberately; “don't you try to flim-flam us, Charlie. We know you too well. You don't want bacon and you don't want tobacco.”
“China boy heap plenty much sick. Two boy velly sick. I tink um die pretty soon to-molla. You catch um slop-chest; you gib me five, seven liver pill. Sabe?”
“I'll tell you what you want,” cried Moran, aiming a forefinger at him, pistol fashion; “you've got a blue funk because those Kai-gingh beach-combers have come into the bay, and you're more frightened of them than you are of the schooner; and now you want us to take you home.”
“How muchee?”
“A thousand dollars.”