“I’ve been in Exeter often,” said Don eagerly; “we’re from Bristol.”
The Englishman waded rapidly into the sea, his Maori companion dashing in on the other side of the boat, and Jem and Don seized their pistols.
“Didn’t I tell you it was peace?” said the Englishman, angrily. “I only wanted to shake hands.”
“Ho!” said Jem, suspiciously, as their visitor coolly seated himself on the gunwale of the boat, his follower taking the opposite side, so as to preserve the balance.
“Enough to make you think we meant wrong,” said the Englishman; “but we don’t. Got any tobacco, mate?”
“Yes,” said Jem, producing his bag. “’Tarn’t very good. Say, Mas’ Don, if he came to see us in Bristol, we could give him a bit o’ real old Charlestown, spun or leaf.”
“Could you, though?” said the man, filling his pipe.
“Yes; my uncle is a large sugar and tobacco merchant,” said Don.
“Then how came you to be a sailor boy? I know, you young dog; you ran away. Well, I did once.”
“No, no,” said Don, hastily; “we did not ran away; we were pressed.”