"Come on, lad, we've run upon our sailors!"
Phil increased his pace as much as possible, and was just at my heels when I stepped out to find myself confronted by none other than the lad who, I had good reason for believing, was in prison at Valparaiso—Oliver Benson.
He stood there grinning, with musket at his shoulder, ready to fire at the first show of enmity from either of us.
Phil was quite as much astonished as I had been, when finally he came into view; but it was possible for him to speak, and he cried:—
"Where did you come from?"
"The last port I left was Valparaiso, where you and your friends spent so much time lodging me in jail. I'm stopping on this island just now with the natives who count on wiping your folks out of sight this afternoon, and I had an idea that you two young scoundrels might be picked up in the rear of the sailors, for I knew full well you wouldn't be found in front."
We stood gazing at him in speechless astonishment, and he, grinning as usual, seemed to enjoy our display of cowardice.
"Come up here one at a time and turn your pockets inside out."
"What's this for?" I asked; but at the same moment taking good care to obey promptly.
"I want to make certain you haven't any weapons."