“Cookie, come kedge ticky-ticky.”
“No. I say, my lad, keep your weather eye open.”
“Both of them, Bob. I’ll take care.”
The paddles were plunged in again, and the boat glided onward.
“I don’t half like it,” muttered Bostock. “That there boy’s too wentersome. S’pose they got hungry—they most always are—and took it into their heads to make a fire. Ugh! They aren’t to be trusted, but I b’leeve they all like him and would be precious sorry when they got back and Old King Cole asked where he was. There’d be a row and a bit o’ shooting, I dessay, for it’s amazing, that it is, amazing, the way the old vagabone has took to our lad. But I don’t like his going off with ’em, and with nothing better than a bit of a toothpick of a knife. Wouldn’t be long before he got hold of a club, though, I know.”
Bostock went back to his galley shaking his head, and at the same time Carey was mentally shaking his own.
“An old stupid,” he said. “I wish he hadn’t said that. Just as if it was likely that Black Jack or either of the others would hurt me without Old King Cole was there to say ‘Css!’ to them and hound them on. Wouldn’t hurt me, would you, Black Jack?” he said aloud.
“Hey? Wood hurt um?” cried the man, and he pulled the boy on one side, dropped on his knees, and began to feel about the bottom of the canoe with his hand. “No hurt.”
“No; all right now,” said Carey, smiling. “Here, Jackum, I want to learn to throw the boomerang. Give me hold.”
The boy made a snatch at the crescent-moon-like weapon, and got hold; but the black seized it too, shouting, “No, no, no!” and his companions began to shout what sounded like a protest.