“Guess what bone it was.”
“How can I tell?”
“Bone of a man’s leg, Mas’ Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, Tomati telled me.”
“Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting.”
Don was wearied out with a long day’s work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch.
Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore.
“This is what I hate in being a sailor,” grumbled Jem. “No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you’re roused up to keep some watch.”
“Yes, it is wearisome, Jem.”