“No, Tom; I thought you were going to speak.”
“No, sir. I was only thinking it seemed precious queer.”
“Yes, it does—queer is the word, Tom. I can’t quite make it out.”
“That’s what’s the matter with me, sir. Seems so lonesome like. Makes me feel as if somebody was dead here, and I was precious glad when you spoke. Something arn’t right somehow.”
“The place is lonely because the people have taken fright at our coming and gone off into the forest, I suppose. It is a lonely place, as we found out for ourselves when we had lost our way.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it, sir? Well, I’m glad to know it, but somehow that don’t seem quite enough for me. I still keep feeling as something’s wrong, and as I said sir,—don’t laugh at me, sir, ’cause I can’t help it. I arn’t got a head like you as eggsplains everything for you. I get a bit silly and puzzled like sometimes, and just now it seems to me like a man might feel if some one was dead here.”
As the sailor spoke he pushed his straw hat back from his forehead and wiped the big drops of perspiration away.
“Tom,” said Murray sharply, “you’re about the most superstitious fellow I ever ran against. You’re frightened of shadows.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right,” whispered the man eagerly, and he glanced sharply about him. “Shadders—that’s it, sir; that’s just what I am: things as I can’t understand and feel like. I allers was, sir, and fell foul o’ myself for it; but then, as I says to myself, I ain’t ’fraid o’ nothing else. I’m pretty tidy and comf’table in the wussest o’ storms, and I never care much if one’s under fire, or them black beggars is chucking their spears at you, because you’ve got some’at to shoot at again.”
“No, Tom; you’re stout enough then.”