“No, stupid. That one.”
“Iss. Dat cookey,” and he nodded and grinned at Bostock.
“Tell ’em if cookey tries to get away, mumkull.”
“Iss. Mumkull,” and the black darted forward, to return with the remaining ten, all grinning, to seat themselves in a row, spear in hand, upon the starboard bulwarks, staring hard at Bostock, who tried to appear perfectly calm and composed; but his face twitched a little.
“They’d better not try to mumkull me,” he whispered to Carey. “Two can play at that game. But what’s he going to do?”
“Now then,” cried the beachcomber, “into the boat with you. I’m going to have those casks tapped and see what the stuff’s like. Hi! Jack, take some buckets in the boat.”
The black darted about and secured three buckets, which he tossed over the side into the boat.
“Now then, down with you,” growled the beachcomber, and Carey and the doctor had to go, leaving Bostock with his eyes far more wide open than usual.
“I wish the doctor would talk to me,” said Carey to himself as he took his seat in the well-formed whale-boat, which he rightly supposed must have come ashore somewhere on this ocean king’s dominions. “He is so horribly quiet.”
Then the boy looked at Black Jack and his three companions, who as soon as their ruler was in his place, gun in hand, thrust out their oars and began rowing with the skill and jerk of men-o’-war’s men.