“Not yet. Get out.”
The black darted away again as quickly as he had come.
“That chap’s a child o’ nature, young fellow,” said the beachcomber, scowling; “so I say to you, don’t you try to gammon me. Fetch out that box.”
“How can he,” cried Carey, boldly, “when he hasn’t got one?”
“What?” roared the man, clapping his hand upon his revolver, and turning fiercely upon the boy. “What’s that?”
“You heard what I said,” cried Carey, in no way daunted. “Why, we haven’t tried one of the tubs yet.”
“Good job for you,” growled the man, fiercely, as he tried to look Carey down; but the boy did not for a moment wince. “You’re a nice imprunt young cock bantam, though. But you’re shivering in your shoes all the same—aren’t you?”
He made a snatch at the boy’s shoulder, but quick as thought Carey struck at the coming hand, catching it heavily with his fist and eluding the touch.
“Don’t do that,” he cried, fiercely, “you know I’ve got a bad shoulder.”
“Why, you insolent young cock-sparrow, I’ve a good mind to—No, I won’t—I’ll let them do it by-and-by.”