“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Carey, derisively.
The next moment the man’s hand closed tight upon the boy’s shoulder, holding him fast.
“You don’t believe it, eh?”
“No,” said Carey, boldly; “not a word of it, and don’t grip my shoulder like that—it hurts.”
“Meant it to, puppy,” growled the man, menacingly. “D’ye hear? Cook you and eat you, and they’ll begin on you, because you’re young and tender; and they’ll go on eating you till they’re as dizzy as drunken men. Then they’ll go to sleep, and wake up again, and go on cooking and eating till they can’t see, and keep on till they’ve finished you all.”
“Find me pretty tough,” growled Bostock.
“Not they,” cried the man. “You’d be tender by the time they got to you. They don’t mind how long it is first. Don’t believe it, eh?”
“No,” said Carey, setting his teeth hard to master the pain he felt. “It’s a silly story about cannibalism to frighten me.”
“Think so?” said the man. “All right. Here, Black Jack!” he roared.
The leading black snatched up spear and club and bounded to the speaker with wonderful alacrity, his eyes flashing, and he looked from one to the other as if expecting orders to slay.