“They are mountains, and I suppose it’s the morning mist.”
“Mountains!” said Esau, contemptuously, “not much o’ mountains. Why, that one over yonder don’t look much bigger than Primrose Hill.”
“Not much,” said Gunson, who was walking back with the skipper. “Very much like it too, especially the snow on the top. How far is that mountain off?” he added, turning to the skipper.
“Hunard miles,” grunted the person addressed.
“Look here,” whispered Esau, as soon as we were alone, for the skipper and Gunson went below, “I don’t say that he hasn’t been very civil to us, and he helped us nicely about getting on here, but I don’t like that chap. Do you?”
“I really don’t know,” I said with a laugh.
“Well, I do know. He looks at one with that eye of his, as if he was thinking about the money in your belt all the time.”
“He can’t be thinking about yours,” I said drily.
“Oh dear! I forgot that,” said Esau. “But all the same, I don’t like a man with one eye.”
“But it isn’t his fault, Esau.”