“Lookye here,” cried Jem, speaking in the irritable fashion of those just rescued from drowning; “if that there chief keeps on saying, ‘My pakeha’ at me in that there aggravating way, I shall hit him in the mouth.”
“Ah! You’re rusty,” said the tattooed Englishman. “Man always is when he’s been under water.”
“I dunno what you mean by being rusty,” said Jem snappishly. “What I say is, leave a man alone.”
“All right!” said the Englishman. “I’ll let you alone. How’s your young mate?”
“My head aches dreadfully,” said Don; “and there’s a horrible pain at the back of my neck.”
“Oh, that’ll soon go off, my lad. And now what are you going to do?”
“Do?” interrupted Jem. “Why, you don’t mean to give us up, do you?”
“I don’t mean to do anything or know anything,” said the man. “Your skipper’ll come to me to-morrow if he don’t think you’re drowned, or—I say, did you feel anything of ’em?”
“Feel anything—of what?” said Don.
“Sharks, my lad. The shallow waters here swarm with them.”