As the pirate spoke, a fierce gleam came into his eyes, and in his blind wrath he drove his knife repeatedly into the lid of the sea-chest, around which they were seated, and which proved to be the property of his American compatriot, Mr. Badger.
"Walley of Gehosophat! airthquakes and alligators!" exclaimed that personage; "keep calm dew, Pedro. Yew are getting tew riled, capting. I'd like to gouge old Phillips, rayther, and prison the whole bilin' of 'em aft!"
"Massa Pedro, Massa Barradas," said Quaco, the black cook, looking suddenly out of his berth with a tremendous grin on his sable visage, "I could tell you something funny—yaas! yaas!—I could."
"Maldita! then why the devil don't you tell it," growled Pedro; "time is short, and I can't get the Malay proas out of my head."
"You know where the wite gals sleep?"
"Yes; out with what you have got to say, you dark-skinned fool."
"Yaas! yaas!" grinned Quaco, whose yellow eyeballs gleamed with mischief.
"Presto, quick, or my knife may tickle your ribs," roared Pedro, setting down a bottle, from which he had sucked the last drop of a mixture of champagne and brandy, compounded by Badger.
"Under the companion-stair, Massa Pedro, a door opens with a slide into the wite gals' cabin."
"Demonio! do you say so, darkey?"