“Poor fellow! I’m afraid he’s dead,” whispered Don.
“Then he won’t want no more cutlashes and pistols,” said Jem, coolly appropriating the arms; “these here will be useful to us.”
“But they are the king’s property, Jem.”
“Ah! Well, I dessay if the king knew how bad we wanted ’em, he’d lend ’em to us. He shall have ’em again when we’ve done with them.”
As he spoke Jem helped himself to the ammunition, and then stood looking on as Don dragged Ramsden’s head round, so that the wind blew in his face.
“How I should like to jump on him!” growled Jem. “I hate him like poison, and I would if I’d got on a pair o’ boots. Shouldn’t hurt him a bit like this.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem. Mr Jones might hear us. Let’s hail; he can’t be very far off.”
“I say, Mas’ Don, did our ugly swim last night send you half mad?”
“Mad? No!”
“Then, p’r’aps it’s because you had no sleep. Here’s a chap comes hunting of us down with a cutlash, ready to do anything; and now he’s floored and we’re all right, you want to make a pet on him. Why, it’s my belief that if you met a tiger with the toothache you’d want to take out his tusk.”