“Trust them!” said Poole. “I never met anybody yet who wouldn’t.”
They made a sign to a swarthy-looking fellow in the stern of the nearest boat, and Fitz pointed to the great golden bunch.
“How much?” he said.
The man grinned, seized the bunch with his boat-hook, passed it over the bulwark, and let it fall upon the deck, hooked up another quickly, treated that the same, and was repeating the process, when Poole shouted at him to stop.
“Hold hard!” he cried. “I am not going to pay for all these.”
But the man paid no heed, but went on tossing in fruit, calling to the lads in Spanish to catch, and feeding them, as we say, in a game, with great golden balls in the shape of delicious-looking melons.
“Here, is the fellow mad?” cried Fitz, who, a regular boy once more, enjoyed the fun of catching the beautiful gourds. “We shall have to throw all these back.”
“Try one now,” said Poole.
“Right,” cried Fitz. “Catch, stupid!” And he sent one of the biggest melons back.
The man caught it deftly, and returned it, shouting—