Whish went the stick through the air, and Bruff crouched at his feet, grovelling in the sand, and holding up his wounded and bandaged paw as he whined piteously, as if that injury were sufficient to exempt him from being beaten.
Mark bent over him, caught him by the loose skin of his neck, and struck the sand a heavy bang.
The dog whined softly as if beaten, and Jack began to dance about up in the cocoa-nut tree, snaking the leaves and chattering savagely.
Another blow on the sand, a howl, and a furious burst from the monkey, who spat and scolded more fiercely.
Another blow, and another, and another; and as Bruff whined, the monkey came scuffling down the smooth columnar trunk, and was evidently on his way to attack Mark, but Billy caught him before he could reach the ground, administered a smart cuff on the ear, and would have delivered another, but, quick as thought, Jack sprang from his grasp, spun round, leaped upon his back like lightning, bit him in the thick of the neck, and then bounded away towards the jungle, followed by the dog.
“Now I calls him a warmint,” said Billy, rubbing his neck softly. “A warmint—that’s what I calls him. Only let me get hold on him again; and if I don’t make him warm, my name aren’t Widgeon.”
“You’ve got about the worst on it this time, my lad, and no mistake,” said Small, laughing, while Mark stamped about and held his sides.
“Yes, I’ve got the worst on it,” said Billy; “but I’ll sarve him out—a warmint. My neck a-bleeding, Mr Small?”
“No, m’lad, only a bit red. He’s give it a bit of a pinch; that’s all.”
“Yes, and I’ll give him a bit of a pinch when I ketches him. I calls him a warmint—that’s what I calls him.”