“What do you mean?”
“Why, it’s give me a feeling as we’re going to get out o’ this job without being cooked and eaten. You see how they go down on their knees like to old Bottle-nose yonder?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s because he’s a white man and not a bit afraid of ’em.”
“Yes, of course; but we—I mean, I am.”
“Not you, sir. Didn’t look like it just now. Well, you’re a white un. I won’t call you a white man; that would be gammoning you, because man you aren’t yet. But you’re a plucked un, and they was all delighted to see you hit their mate. Well, you go on like that, and they’ll be afraid of you. There’s something in a white skin as is too much for them, and you’ve only got to let ’em see that you don’t care a quid o’ ’bacco for their blunt wood sticks and knob clubs, to keep ’em where they ought to be, down—right down. For they’re only good enough to make door-mats to wipe your shoes on. Eat us? I should like to ketch ’em at it!”
“I shouldn’t, Bob.”
“Ah, well, I didn’t quite mean that, sir; it was only a way o’ speaking.”
“Are you two chaps going to be all night?” came in a fierce voice from the cabin stairs.
Carey stepped up to the speaker directly.