The black stared, with the opalescent whites of his eyes forming rings around his irides. Then, grasping the fact that it was done as a joke, he burst into a loud guffaw, slapped his thighs and cried, “Bunyip—bunyip!” bounding away the next moment, for Bostock sent a handful of water splashing all over his face.
Black Jackum roared at this, and Bostock made a feint of splashing him, to the other blacks’ great delight.
Jackum dodged and ducked his head, Bostock keeping up the threatening till Jackum protested.
“No—no—no,” he cried. “Let feel um,” and he stretched out his hands.
“All right,” cried Bostock, ceasing his watery threats; “feel then.”
“Feel cookie,” said Jackum, solemnly. “Cookie brokum?”
The black’s fingers were applied with delicate touch to the old sailor’s head.
“Gently, old soot-box,” said Bostock, quietly submitting; “it feels as if it was red-hot.”
“No brokum,” said Jackum, turning sharply to Carey and catching at the boy’s wrist. “Feelum.”
Carey felt the injured head gently, and was not a bit the wiser, save that he could not feel the movement of fractured bones, so he nodded back to Jackum and repeated the black’s words.