CHAPTER VIII.—AT THE HAUNTED PAGODAS.
The fire, fortunately, had gained so little headway that a few bucketfuls of water sufficed to put the Jolly Tar cut of danger. Then the captain stumped up to Don, where he sat disconsolate on the cutter's gun'le, and laid a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder.
“Cheer up, my hearty! They warmints ain't done for Master Jack yet, not by a long chalk, says I. Flush my scuppers, lad!” he roared in stentorian tones, as he turned the light of the lantern upon the pool of blood, “this 'ere sanguinary gore as dyes the deck bain't his'n at all. It's the blood o' some native warmint, what he's gone an' let daylight into, d'ye mind me, an' here's the musket as done the trick.”
“Then you think he's not—not dead?” asked Don, steadying his voice with an effort.
“Dead? Not him! Alive he is, and alive he remains,” cried the old sailor. “An' why so? you naterally axes. To begin with, as the shark says when he nipped the seaman's leg off, because the keg o' powder's gone. Spurts, the warmints thinks to theirselves, an' so they makes away with it. Secondly”—and here the old sailor's voice grew husky—“because that 'ere imp of a Besin's gone. 'I'll stand hard by Master Jack,' says he, so off he goes. Sharks an' sea-sarpents, lad, can't ye see as the lubbers have only gone an' took Master Jack in tow?”
“But I can't understand,” persisted Don, “why they should do it.”
“Ransom, lad, that's what the lubbers is arter. Master Jack's life's worth a sight more'n a bag o' pearls, an' well they knows it.
“Avast there, an' don't be a milksop so soft,
To be taken for trifles aback;
There's a Providence, lad, as sits up aloft