“Cock your pistol, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, “quiet-like; don’t let ’em see. They’ve got their spears and choppers. Precious ready too with their ahoys.”
“Why, it’s that tattooed Englishman, Jem, and that savage who called me his pakeha.”
“And like his impudence!” said Jem. “You’re right though, so it is.”
“Morning, mate,” said the Englishman, who, save that he was a little lighter in colour than his hideous-looking companion, could hardly be distinguished from him.
“Morning, my hearty,” said Jem. “What is it? Want a passage home?”
“Do I want what?” growled the man. “Not I; too well off here.”
“Wouldn’t be safe to go back, p’r’aps,” said Jem meaningly.
The man darted a fierce look at him, which told that the shaft had hit its mark.
“Never you mind about that,” he said surlily.
“But you are a lifer, and have run away, haven’t you?” continued Jem, in a bantering tone.