“Ah, well! I won’t persuade you, my lad. P’r’aps you’re best where you are. But if you do make up your mind, come to me.”
“How should we find you?” said Jem, who was careful to acquire knowledge that might be useful.
“Ask the first man you see for Tomati Paroni, and he’ll bring you to me.”
“Tomati Paroni,” said Don thoughtfully; “is that New Zealand for Tom—Tom—?”
“Tom Brown,” said the chief, laughing. “They have all sorts of English words like that.”
The country was so beautiful, and the shore presented so many attractions, that the officers kept a strict watch over the men for fear of desertion; but there was something which acted more as a deterrent than anything that the officers could say or do, and that was the report that the natives were cannibals.
“Lots of ’em would desert,” Jem said one night, as he lay in his hammock so close to Don’s that they touched, “only—”
“Well, only what?” said Don.
“They say they’d rather stick on board, and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks.”
“They’re not blacks, Jem; and I don’t believe about the cannibal work.”