But this chief could talk fairly good English, and he spun some terrible yarns, about the fierce men who dwelt among the wild mountains. He entreated them not to venture there, else they would return "plenty dead, and much bloody".
This was not encouraging, so Creggan thought over a plan he had formed for visiting the hills, and finally gave it up, for a time at all events.
"Plenty bad mountain men. Plenty white men dey makee fat, den roast and gobble up. Brains smashee out wi' one club. Oh, mountain men plenty mooch big fellows!"
"But for all that," said Creggan to his friend, "I should like to go some day."
"Yes," replied the Duckling; "but I wouldn't like to be fed up and killed and cooked—eh, would you?"
"Roast duckling and green peas," said Creggan maliciously. "Come, sing these folks a song, old chap, and you sha'n't be cooked. There!"
The Duckling did as told, and the chief and his wife seemed charmed. Even the children sat up on one end in the corner, and rolled their white eyes in ecstasy.
So the time passed away very cheerfully indeed. But lo! just before the hour for the dug-outs to arrive a squall came on, the water or spray dashed high over the roof of the hut, and when Creggan peeped out it was all a-smother as far as he could see.
They hoped against hope that the weather would moderate, but squall succeeded squall, and soon darkness fell over land and water. It was evident, therefore, that our heroes were prisoners for one night.
Well, your true sailor always tries to make the best of every adventure. They had plenty to eat of their own, and lighting the fire the kindly Papuan lady cooked and placed fish before them on palm-leaf plates.