“You’re not too hot to talk back, Franky.”
“Eh? Hullo! Why, I ought to fly at you now for calling me by that ridiculous name Franky.”
“Bah! Here, do talk sense. What were you going to tell me about old Anderson and the skipper?”
“I don’t know, dear boy. You’ve bullied it all out of me, or else the weather has taken it out. Oh, I know now: old Anderson went up to him and said something—what it was I don’t know—unless it was about changing our course—and he snarled, turned his back and went below to cool himself, I think. I say, though, it is hot, Dick.”
“Well, do you think I hadn’t found that out?”
“No, it is all plain to see. You are all in a state of trickle, old chap. I say, though, isn’t it a sort of midsummer madness to expect to catch one of these brutal craft on a day like this?”
There was an angry grunt.
“Quite right, old fellow. Bother the slavers! They’re all shut up snugly in the horrible muddy creeks waiting for night, I believe. Then they’ll steal out and we shall go on sailing away north or south as it pleases the skipper. Here, Dicky—I mean, Dick—what will you give me for my share of the prize money?”
“Bah!” ejaculated the youth addressed. “Can’t you be quiet, Frank? Buss, buss, buss! It’s just for the sake of talking. Can’t you realise the fact?”
“No, dear boy; it’s too hot to realise anything?”