“Teach the beggar a lesson he won't forget in a hurry,” said Don, as he watched the boat recede. “Good-bye, old boy; we're not likely to meet again.”
But in this sanguine forecast of the future he was mistaken, as events speedily proved.
CHAPTER II. A STROKE OF LUCK AND AN AFTER-STROKE.
It was the afternoon of the day on which the shark-charmer so unwillingly walked the plank. The breeze was so light and fitful that it barely ruffled the surface of the sea about the schooner. Weary of the narrow limits of the deck, Don and his chum dropped into the boat and rowed ashore—Puggles, as a matter of course, bearing them company.
“These beastly sands are like an oven!” growled Don, lifting his helmet to cool his dripping forehead. “Where shall we go, Jack?”
“Bazaar,” replied Jack laconically; “always some fun to be had there. Pug, point for the bazaar.”
“Me pointing, sar,” puffed the black boy, setting his dumpy legs in motion.
Puggles was never so much in his element as when thus strutting pompously in advance, warning common nigger humanity of the white sahibs' approach. At such times the disdainful tilt of his nose, the supreme self-complaisance of his expansive grin, were as good as a show.