“Whatcher do that there for?” he asked, plaintively.
“Can’t you see, stoopid?” growled Smith. “Look.”
He pointed straight away to where, about half a mile distant, a couple of large canoes, crowded with men, were coming swiftly along the smooth waters of the lagoon, their occupants apparently aiming for a point opposite to where the two sailors lay.
Chapter Thirty Five.
By the Skin of their Teeth.
“Murder!” said Wriggs, in a low voice.
“That there will be, Billy, if them chaps don’t let us alone. Look here, mate, it aren’t their island; they lives somewheres else, or they wouldn’t want a boat—bah! I don’t call them holler logs boats—to get here. Who are they, I should like to know? Just a-cause we’re ashore, and can’t get our ship afloat they think they’re going to do just what they please with us. But we’ve got guns, Billy, and we know how to use ’em, mate, and if they think as they’re going to collar off all there is aboard the Planet, they’re jolly well out of their reckoning, eh, Billy?”
Smith had by this time shifted himself to his messmate’s side and was looking at him earnestly, but Wriggs did not stir, he only rested his chin upon his hands and stared hard at the two canoes.