“This island I knew well,” said Antonio, “many years ago. But there seems to be more people on it now.”
“Indeed, sir!” said Mr. Webber.
The captain handed him the glass.
“And they are armed too,” said Archie Webber, “with guns and clubs. Will it not be dangerous to land?”
“My dear Mr. Mate, land we must, and will subdue them by—well, by kindness or the reverse. The clubs are ugly weapons if they get to close quarters. As to the guns, they come, I think, from Birmingham; and if they aim at us we are perfectly safe. If they shoot at random, well, one or two of us might bite the sand accidentally.
“Then,” he added, “they would have a feast.”
“What, sir, you don’t mean to say they are cannibals?”
“They are nothing less or more.
“But,” he continued, “there is a lagoon in yonder isle of St. Peter[8] in which shells lie more thickly strewn than leaves on a garden path in autumn. This beautiful isle has probably never been visited by white men, except perhaps the Queensland pirates, who carry the natives off by force, and make ‘free slaves’ of them.”
“Pirates?”