Chapter Twenty Four.
Poor Bob Bostock’s head had seemed as much swollen mentally as it had been externally, but these words on the part of Carey gave a fillip to his power of thinking, and he stared at the lad with his mouth open and, instead of being stupefied and weak, he grew rapidly stronger.
“My eyes and limbs, Master Carey!” he gasped; “you don’t mean to go and say such a thing as that, do you?”
“I do, Bob, but look here,” he went on, keeping to a whisper; “try and be cool and take it all as a matter of course. Everything may depend upon our taking our troubles calmly. We must not let the black fellows think we are upset over it.”
“I see, sir. Yes, that’s right. You mean if we show the white feather these fellows’ll come and pluck us.”
“Something of the kind, Bob. There, go on bathing your head and keep friendly with Black Jack.”
“Right, sir. I see. Chuck dust in their eyes?”
“Exactly.”
“Here goes, then, sir, and I’ll begin with water and make out that I think it all a big lark.”
The old sailor knelt down before the bucket and began to bathe his forehead and the tremendous swelling, while Black Jackum looked on anxiously. The next minute Bostock raised his head, saw that the second black was looking at him solemnly, and he made a hideous grimace at him—an extremely hideous grimace, for his swollen and disfigured forehead helped to make it so.