"Some de crew; some labor picked up down de Sol'mons, an' islan's away dere."
"And your cargo?"
"Copra, most."
While Schumer was talking, Floyd was looking about him at the men on deck. There were a dozen Solomon Islanders, some wearing nothing but G strings, nearly all with shell rings through their nostrils, and some with tobacco pipes stuck in their perforated ear lobes.
He thought he had never seen a harder lot of natives than these. The others were milder looking.
Schumer, meanwhile, went on with his inquiries. The name of the big man was Mountain Joe; he was bos'n. The schooner, since the loss of her officers, had been in a hopeless state, as not a soul on board knew anything of navigation. There had been four white men—the captain, two mates, and a third man, evidently a trader or labor recruiter—and the fish that had done the mischief had been canned salmon; evidently ptomaine poisoning in its most virulent form had attacked the only people who had partaken of it.
When Schumer had received all this intelligence, he ordered the boat to be streamed astern on a line, and took command of the schooner.
Without with your leave or by your leave, he gave his orders no less to Floyd than to Mountain Joe.
The Solomon Islanders and the other natives who had no part in the working of the vessel fell apart from the crew, who sprang to the braces at the order of their new skipper, the sails took the wind, and the Southern Cross began to forge ahead.
The wind was favorable for the lagoon opening, and as they neared it Schumer ordered Floyd forward to con the ship while he himself took the wheel.