“For all things is ready, an' nothing we want,
To fit out our ship as rides so close by;
Both wittles an' weapons, they be nothing scant,
Like worthy sea-dogs ourselves we will try!”
Trolling this ditty, the captain stumped away, while his guests made themselves as comfortable as they could, and sought the slumber of which they stood so much in need.
It was late in the afternoon when they woke. Puggles had disappeared. Proceeding to the beach, they found the captain, assisted by a small army of native servants, busily engaged in putting the-finishing touches to his preparations for the proposed voyage. Just above the surf-line lay the Jolly Tar—a trim little craft, fitted with mast-and sprit, whose sharp, clean-cut lines betokened possibilities in the way of speed that promised well for the issue of their enterprise. In the cuddy, amid a bewildering array of pots, pans, and pannkins, Puggles had already installed himself, his shining face a perfect picture of self-complacent good-nature, whilst Bosin, newly released from durance vile, sat in the stern-sheets, cracking nuts-and jabbering defiance at his black rival.
“A purty craft!” chuckled the captain, checking for a moment the song that was always on his lips, as he led his visitors to the cutters side; “stave my water-butt if there's anything can pull ahead of her in these 'ere parts. Everything shipshape 'an' ready to hand, d'ye see—wittles for the woyage, an' drink for the woyagers. Likewise ammunitions o' war,” cried he proudly, pointing out a number of muskets and shining cutlasses, which a servant just then brought up and placed on board.
“Bath, wittles an' weapons, they be nothing scant,
So like worthy sea-dogs ourselves we will try.”
“What with the cutlasses and guns, and the captain's wooden leg, to say nothing of our small-arms, Don,” said Jack, “we'd better set up for buccaneers at once.”