“Ef yo’ jes’ gib me one ’scuse,” glowered Kink.
As if to settle the fact that he did not intend to do anything of the sort the motor boat captain half-closed his eyes, studying the ground.
Yet, not for a moment did Halstead cease to hope that he might find a way out of this predicament. Only one black man—one rifle—and that capable little motor launch tied so close at hand!
Presently Kink rested the butt of the rifle briefly on the ground while from one of his pockets he drew forth an old corn-cob pipe and a pinch of coarse tobacco grown in the Everglades. No sooner did he have the pipe going than the negro, watchful all the while, picked up the hunting rifle once more.
“Pretty rank tobacco you have,” observed Tom Halstead, though he tried to speak pleasantly.
“Best Ah can get in dis great swamp,” growled Kink. “Yo? got any erbout yo’ clo’es?”
“I don’t smoke,” Halstead replied.
“Umph!” growled Kink, as though his opinion of the boy had fallen several notches lower.
“Do you never get hold of any good tobacco from the outside world?” questioned Tom.
“Meanin’ sto’ tobacco?” suggested Kink.