“Oh, yes,” said he, “you are going to be rich, you can’t escape it, and you are going to learn reading and writing and arithmetic, and you are going to live to be a hundred.”
“Cut me throat first!” said Jude. “Heave ahead.”
“And you are going to England some day, and you’ll turn into a Britisher.”
“Damned if I do! Satan!”
“Hullo!” came a faint voice from below.
“Rat says I’m goin’ to turn into a Britisher.”
“They wouldn’t own you. Quit foolin’ and get the dinner ready.”
Jude uncurled herself, came down from the keg with a thud, ran to the open skylight, and was about to reply in kind, when her eye caught sight of something that brought her to a halt.
They were handling the canvas on the Juan.
“Cark’s off!” cried she.