“Come out of that,” growled the ruffian, sourly. “I want some breakfast; and you, sailor chap, get out rations of beef or pork for my pack. They’ll be hungry again by this time. Light the fire first, and let’s have some tea soon.”
Carey involuntarily glanced at the bottle on the table, and saw that it was empty. He saw, too, that his glance was noticed, for the beachcomber said with a hoarse laugh:
“Oh, yes, I drink tea too. But put another bottle of that stuff on the table as well.”
They passed out into the saloon, and Carey made at once for the door.
“Where are you going, boy?” cried the beachcomber.
“To get a bucket of fresh water and have a sluice,” replied Carey, sulkily, for he objected to be called “boy.”
“Humph! You look clean enough,” growled the man. “Be off then, and make haste back to get breakfast.”
Carey stepped back to catch up a towel, and then went to the saloon doorway and out on deck.
“Yes, I’ll come back soon, and I’ll help,” muttered the boy through his teeth; “but only wait till I get my chance. Brrrr!” he snarled, “how it all makes me feel as if I should like to do something to somebody.”
He walked sharply to where the bucket he used every morning stood ready, with a line attached to the handle; but before he reached it, there was the soft pattering of feet, and the pack of black fellows came running to meet him, headed by Black Jack, who stopped short close upon the boy to strike an attitude, making a hideous grimace, and poising his spear with one hand while he rested it upon the fingers of the other as if to steady it for hurling, while his companions snatched melon-headed clubs or boomerangs from out of the cord-like girdles which supported a broad shell hanging in front.