At this the hands laughed again, and the skipper, whom they now surmised must have been drinking again when away on his prospecting tour, became perfectly furious; for he turned quite white, while his billy-goat beard bristled up, as it always did when he was angry.
“This air rank mutiny!” he shouted, drawing his revolver and pointing it at Jim Chowder; “but I’ll soon teach ye a lesson, ye skunks. Hyar goes fur one o’ ye!”
Jan Steenbock, as on a previous occasion, however, was too quick for him; for he knocked the weapon out of his fist, and then gripping him in a tight grasp, threw his arms round the captain’s body.
The skipper foamed at the mouth, and swore even worse than Mr Flinders had done just before; but, presently he calmed down a bit, and sat down on the ground—shaking all over, as soon as Jan had removed his grip, though keeping close to him, to be on the watch for his next move, as he expected him to have one of his old fits again.
But the convulsions seemed to pass off very quickly; and the captain, looking like himself again after a few moments, jumped to his feet.
He then stared round about him, as if searching for something or some one, evidently forgetting all that had just happened.
Suddenly his eyes brightened.
“Thaar he is!” he cried, “thaar he is!”
“Who, sir?” asked Jan, seeing his gaze fixed in the direction of the cactus grove, behind which the mate had vanished on his tortoise—“Mistaire Vlinders?”
“No, man, no,” impatiently cried the skipper; “I wanted him to come with me, but ez he’s not hyar, ye’ll do ez wa-all, I reckon. It’s the black buccaneer cap’en I mean, thet I met jest now, over thaar in the vall’y.”