Her light sails winged to catch every breath of the light but steady breeze that chased her astern, the cutter for some hours bowled through the water merrily. In the cabin Puggles and the captain's Black servant snored side by side; whilst Don and Jack lolled comfortably just abaft the mast-, where the night wind, soft and spicy as the breath of Eden, would speedily have lulled them to slumber but for the excitement that fired their blood. The Captain was at the tiller, Bosin curled up by his side.
“If this 'ere wind holds, lads,” exclaimed the old sailor abruptly, after a prolonged silence on his part, “we'd orter make the island agin sunrise, shiver my forefoot if we don't!”
Don looked up with half-sleepy interest. “Island, captain? I thought we were heading straight for the Indian coast.”
“Ay, so we be, straight away. But, y'see, lad, as I hinted a while back, I has a sort o' innard idee, so to say, as the old woman ain't on the mainland.”
“What old woman?” queried Jack, yawning. “Didn't know there was one in the case, captain.”
The old sailor burst into a roar of laughter. “An' no more there ain't, lad,” chuckled he; “an' slit my hammock if we wants one, says you. Forty odd year has I sailed the seas, an' hain't signed articles with any on 'em yet. A tight leetle wessel's the lass for me, lads; for, unship my helm! she never takes her own head for it, says you.”
“Then what about the old woman you mentioned captain?” said Don banteringly.
“Avast there now! An' d'ye mean to say,” demanded the captain incredulously, “as you ain't ever hear'd tell o' the fish what sails under that 'ere name? And a wicious warmint he is, too, shiver my keelson! Hysters is his wittles, an' pearls his physic; he lives on 'em, so to say; an' so I calls the cove as took them pearls o' your'n in tow an old woman; an' why not, I axes?”
“But what about the island you spoke of just now, captain?”
“Why, d'ye see, it's this way, lads; there's an island off the coast ahead, a sort o' holy place like, where them thievin' natives goes once a year an' gets salwation from their sins. Howsomedever, that's neither here nor there, says you; the p'int's this, lads: Somewheres about the month o' March, which is this same month, says you, here the priests flocks from all parts, an' here they stays until they gets a purty pocketful o' cash. Now, my idee's this, d'ye see: the old woman—which I means Salambo—lays alongside the schooner an' takes them pearls o' your'n in tow. What for? says you. Cash, says I. An' so, shiver my main-brace, he shapes his course for this 'ere island, an' sells 'em to the priests.”