“Very likely,” assented Don. “He's bound to carry them to the best market, of course.”
“And equally of course the best market is where the most priests are. By Jove, you have a headpiece, captain!” put in Jack.
“I'm afraid, though,” resumed Don, after a moment's silence, “I'm afraid it's not going to be so easy to come at the old fellow as we think. You say this island's a sort of holy place; well, it's bound to be packed with natives to the very surf-line in that case. Rather ticklish work, I should think, taking the old fellow among so many pals. There's the getting ashore, too; what's to prevent their sighting us?”
“Belay there!” roared the captain, vigorously thumping the bottom of the boat with his wooden leg. “Shiver my main-brace! what sort o' craft do ye take me for, I axes? A island's a island the world over—a lump o' land what's floated out to sea. Wery good, that bein' so—painters an' boathooks!—ain't it as easy a-boardin' of her through the starn-ports as along o' the forechains?”
“Oh, you mean to make the back of the island, and steal a march on old Salambo from the rear, then?” cried Don. “A capital idea!”
“You're on the right tack there, lad,” assented the captain. “There's as purty a leetle cove at the backside o' that island as ever wessel cast anchor in, an' well I knows it, shiver my binnacle! Daylight orter put us into it, if so be—— Split my sprit-sail, lads, if it ain't a-fallin' calm!”
An ominous flapping of the cutter's sails confirmed the captain's words. During the half-hour over which this conversation extended the wind had gradually died away until scarcely a movement of the warm night air could be felt. The cutter, losing her headway, rolled lazily to the motion of the long, glassy swell. Consulting his watch, Don announced it to be three o'clock.