“Well, I mean the holds, and they eat and drink and lie about in the sun basking like black tom-cats with their wives and kittens. I wish they wouldn’t be so jolly fond of lying down on the deck like door-mats, and asking you to wipe your shoes on ’em.”
“They don’t.”
“No, poor beggars, but they’re so delighted that they’re just like pet dogs. Seem as if they couldn’t make enough of you.”
“Got any news, Bob?”
“No. Leastwise, not much,” said Bob, taking out his knife and sharpening it on his boot, which was a sign that he was going to cut his initials somewhere, to the great detriment of her Majesty’s ship’s fittings and boats.
“It’s rather dull down here sometimes.”
“Then why don’t you come on deck?”
“I’d—I’d rather wait a bit,” said Mark, sadly.
“Perhaps it would be best. You do look such a rum ’un. I know. Capital idea. I’ll ask the ship’s tailor to make you a Turkish costume, white. Your bare head would look all right then. What’ll you have—a fez or a turban? Say fez; your complexion would look well with the scarlet.”
Bob joked, Mark read, and trusted to his friend for reports, and meanwhile the two schooners sailed on with their prize crews in the wake of the Nautilus. In due time Port Goldby was reached, and the freed slaves disembarked, all chattering and happy as so many girls and boys.