He jerked his head sidewise in the direction of the blacks, who were eagerly watching and seeing everything, the sight of the boy striking at their white king sending a thrill of excitement through them; however, they did not advance, but stood watching and noting that the beachcomber was laughing heartily.
“I like pluck in a boy,” he growled. “Hi, coo-ee.”
Black Jack darted to his side, with eyes flashing and nostrils distended.
“Boat,” said the man, abruptly.
Black Jack shouted something incomprehensible, and three of the black fellows bounded to the side and disappeared into the whale-boat with their leader.
“Now then,” said the beachcomber, “you stop aboard, cookey, and get something ready for dinner. Hi, Black Jack. Fish. Tell ’em.”
“Tell boys kedgee fis’?”
The beachcomber nodded, and the black shouted again, with the result that six more of the blacks came running to the side and dropped over into the canoe.
“Hi, Jack, tell the others, if cookey here—”
“Dis cookey?” asked the black, touching Carey on the head.