“No, no; Mr Huggins!”
“Massa sailor captain tell Massa Huggin—”
“No, no; I’m not going to tell your overseer anything.”
The black looked at the speaker searchingly for a few moments, glanced round as if to see whether they were likely to be overheard; and then, as if gaining confidence, he leaned towards the midshipman and whispered—
“Massa overseer go to get men from schooner—fighting men come and kill sailor and burn up ship. Big fire. Burn ship. Burn, kill sailor. Massa no tell what Caesar say?”
“Oh no; I shall not tell Master Huggins, Caesar,” said Murray, smiling. “Now tell your men to come back and row your boat. I want to find Mr Allen.”
The black looked searchingly in the midshipman’s face once more, and then apparently gaining confidence, he turned sharply upon the big sailor, when that which he had gained seemed to be dying out again and he glanced at the shore of the lagoon, and Tom read so plainly that the black was thinking again of flight that he gave him a sharp slap on the shoulder, making him wince violently and utter a low sob.
“Why, you are a pretty sort of fellow,” cried the sailor, his face opening out into a jovial smile. “You seem to have a nice idee of a British sailor!”
“Bri’sh sailor?” said the black, slowly repeating the tar’s words. “You Bri’sh sailor, hey?”
“To be sure I am, my lad—leastwise I hope so.”