“Talking of women,” cried the one who had first spoken, “I wonder what became of the one we left here so cleverly when we was wrecked at this here place six years ago.”
John Gough looked uneasy at this inquiry, as if the recollection was not agreeable to him.
“And the Little Savage,” continued the fellow, “what was a-going to send his knife into my ribs for summat or other—I forget what. They must have died long ago, I ain’t no doubt, as we unfortnitely left ’em nothin’ to live upon.”
“No doubt they died hand in hand, like the Babes in the Wood,” said another.
I still observed John Gough; he seemed distressed at the turn the conversation had taken.
“Now, mates,” he said, hurriedly, “let us return to the ship. We have done what we came to do.”
“I votes as we shall go and see arter the missionary’s woman and the Little Savage,” cried the fourth. “I should like, somehow, to see whether they be living or not, and a stroll ashore won’t do any on us any harm.”
“I shall remain here till you return,” said John Gough; and he threw himself on the grass with his back towards me, and only a few yards from the place in which we were concealed. The rest, after making fast the boat, started off on an exploring expedition, in the direction of the old hut.