The two blacks gazed hard at the speaker, the man who had been dragged into the first cutter through Mark, bending forward a little, with his soft opal eyeballs gleaming and a wonderful intense look in his swart face. There was a twitching about the temples, and his lower lip trembled a little, while one hand was raised; but as Bob Howlett finished, he uttered a low sigh, muttered a few words to his companion, and drew himself up, folding his arms across his broad chest.
“Well done, noble savage,” said Bob. “We very nearly understand each other. Here, Soup.”
The black started at the word, and looked inquiringly at the speaker.
“Don’t worry the poor fellows,” said Mark.
“Who’s going to worry them? Look here, Soup, you’re going to serve the Queen, and the sooner you understand the Queen’s English the better. I’m going to suit the action to the word. Now then, see here.”
Bob glanced sharply round, to see that only the officer of the watch was on deck, and then, going through a kind of pantomime with great rapidity, he made believe to be struggling with an assailant toward the bulwarks, and being pitched overboard, while the blacks looked on in astonishment.
“Here, they think you’re going mad, Bob,” cried Mark. “Drop it.”
“Sha’n’t! Look at ’em! They understand. Look here, Soup. Now then, Taters, I’m swimming for my life.”
He struck out and swam drily, going through all the actions till he pretended to grow weak, threw up his hands, made believe to splash, and then let his head droop as he reached Mark’s chair.
“Now then,” he said, “pretend to pull me into the boat.”