“Ah, I wish I could feel like that, sir,” sighed Bostock. “You wouldn’t, though, if you come up on deck and heard how he’s going on.”
“I can hear every word, Bob, and so can Jackum.”
“Jackum? Ah, I ’most forgot him. I say, sir, his brothers, or whatever they are, seem to be carrying on a nice game, over yonder. P’raps it’s ’cause they feel that they’re safe enough. They’ve got a thumping big fire, and they’re dancing round it like a lot o’ little children playing at may-pole. Seems to me, sir, that these here blacks grow up to be children, and then they makes a fresh start; their bodies go on growing like anything, but their brains stops still and never grows a day older. Hark, there he goes again.”
“What, Mallam?”
“Yes, sir; you can hear him talking to himself as you stand at the top o’ the stairs listening. He was at it when I was there, and he’s at it again.”
“What is he doing?” whispered Carey.
“Seems to me, sir, as if he’s tearing a way through a bulkhead so as to get a clear opening to the powder barrels.”
“If there are any,” said Carey, sharply. “O’ course, sir; that’s what I mean. Hear that?”
Yes, Carey had heard that—a sharp cracking tearing sound as of wood splitting and snapping, and as the sounds continued it was easy enough for the listeners in the dark to imagine what was going on, and that the old beachcomber was preparing his mine.
“Here, Jackum,” said Carey, in a sharp whisper.