“Yes,” said Billy sulkily, “I’m a-going to; but if I don’t sarve him out for this my name aren’t Widgeon.”
“Come along, Mr Mark,” said the boatswain, “Jack’s going to roost up there to-night.”
“Wish he may tumble out o’ the tree, then, and break something,” growled Billy, whose dignity was touched.
“He won’t tumble,” said the boatswain, “he knows better. Come along, Mr Mark.”
“Want him down, Billy?”
“Course I does, and I’m sorry for him when he do come, for I’m a-going to warm his skin, that’s what I’m a-going to do for him.”
“Shall I get him down?”
“You can’t,” cried Billy sourly.
“Better than you can get cocoa-nuts,” said Mark, laughing, for the perils were all forgotten, and the strange noise in the jungle might never have been. “Here, Bruff.”
The dog trotted up with Billy’s cap in his mouth, surrendered it dutifully; and then Mark caught up a piece of drift-wood—a branch swept ashore by the current—and raising it in a threatening way, Bruff uttered a low howl.