“Yes, sir; I hope not, but it’s solid soft everywhere I’ve been. I’ve been most through half-a-dozen times, and twiced over I’ve felt as if some of them there lizardy crorkendillo things had got hold of my toes and tugged at ’em to get me down.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it, Tom,” groaned the midshipman.
“All right, sir; on’y you arksed me.”
“But you have no right to think such a horror as that. He may have got down to the boat.”
“Yes, sir, he may,” said the man, in a low growl, “but I’ve been trying my best, and I couldn’t.”
“Then you haven’t seen the boat-keepers, Tom?”
“Not a squint of ’em, sir, and there’s going to be the wussest row that ever happened aboard ship if we don’t make haste and find them and fetch the first luff help.”
“It’s horrible, I know, Tom, but I’ve tried all I could. What’s to be done?”
“Dunno, sir. But anyhow I’ve found you—leastwise, a’most; and I’m coming to jyne yer. Whereabouts are you, sir? Hail again; it’s rayther puzzling like.”
“It is, Tom—dreadful. But here, where I told you—up in this fir tree—cypress. But mind how you come, for it’s very soft.”