“Got meat?”
“Yes,” said Carey, and he served out the big lumps cut ready, while Bostock held the light, the blacks taking it steadily enough till all were served, and Carey stood looking at them.
Then a murmur arose, Black Jack shouting the one word “’bacco,” and his fellows all joining.
“Can’t you wait a minute, you set o’ undressed nigger minstrels?” growled Bostock. “There, give ’em the cakes o’ ’bacco, sir, and I wish it would make ’em sick.”
Carey had placed the oblong squares of compressed leaf in his pocket, and he now took out half-a-dozen, the light being cast upon his hands and giving the boy a glimpse of one of the party in the act of making a snatch.
Carey recalled his orders, and he was in the right humour for taking advantage of it, for his blood was up, and he jumped at the opportunity of getting a little satisfaction out of his enemies.
The black was quick, but the boy was equally so, and as the savage made a snatch, Carey’s disengaged fist flew out in good school-boy fashion. There was the sound of a heavy blow, a yell, and the black bounded off the deck, to come down again club in hand and grinning ferociously as he raised it as if to strike.
Carey did not pause to think.
“Ah, would you?” he cried, and he struck out again quick as lightning, striking the black on the right cheek and drawing back quickly, expecting a general attack for his pugnacity.
But to his great surprise and satisfaction there was a yell of laughter, and the party danced round him, shouldering their fellow away, as in a series of strange antics they displayed their delight at his discomfiture.