“Then p’r’aps it arn’t; but I’m always thinking I see ’em coming out full of men.”
“Fancy, Jem.”
“So it is, I s’pose. Know how long we’re going to stop here, Mas’ Don?”
“No, Jem. Getting tired of it?”
“Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home.”
That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed.
“Wish we was in her,” sighed a voice at his ear.
Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed.
“What for, Jem?”
“To get away from here, Mas’ Don. Wish you’d alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more.”