“No, Dan. What about that dark thing that we saw crawling through the clearing the other night, and which neither of us was sure about?”
The little sailor answered by bending his knees and then bringing his right hand down with a tremendous slap upon his right thigh.
“That’s it, sir. You’ve got it. Nigger crawling up from outside come pickling and stealing. See that, messmate?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well,” said Dan, “it must have been some black beggar from outside come creeping up at night to see what he could smug.”
“Yes, Dan,” cried Mark, eagerly.
“Well, I’m blessed!” cried Buck. “And—and—and—” He looked first at one lad and then at the other, as he rummaged first with one hand and then with the other in his pockets, and then with both together, before turning savagely upon Dan and roaring out, “Here, who’s got my knife?”
“Well, not me, messmate. Here’s mine;” and laying hold of the short lanyard about his neck he hauled out his big jack knife from inside the band of his trousers. “You don’t call that yourn, do you?”
“Na-ay!” growled Buck. “Wouldn’t own a thing like that. Mine was made of the best bit of stuff that ever came out of Sheffield.”
“Only a Brummagem handle, though,” said Dan.