“Oh, very well!” said the manager. “I’ve warned you. I wash my hands of the whole affair. But I’ll promise you this: I’ll get your remains together.”
“My remains?” said Stan, aghast.
“Of course; they are sure to hack you to pieces—it’s a way they have. And there’ll be some difficulty, perhaps, in recovering your head. They generally carry that off as a trophy; but I’ll do my best to get you back to the old folks in a cask of Chinese palm-spirit. Will that do?”
During the past few moments Stan had felt a sensation as if cold steel of wondrously sharp edge were at work upon his back and across his neck; but the tone of the question brought him back to himself, and he replied calmly:
“Capitally. But, by the way, if the savage pirates come and treat me like that, where will you be?”
“Eh?” said the manager, staring. “Where shall I be?”
“Yes. Isn’t it just as likely that I should have to do this duty for you?”
“Oh, I see! Yes, of course; but—Ha, ha, ha! Come! you have got something in you after all. You are pretty sharp.”
“Just sharp enough to see that you are trying to frighten me.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the manager, with a dry smile. “But you’ve had a sample of what these people can do, and I won’t answer for it that they don’t try some of their capers here. Then you mean to risk it?”