“Oh, no, sir. I no forget you,” said the native, civilly enough, but without warmth. “How are you, Cap'en Bilker?”
“Sh', don't call me that, Bandy. I'm Captain Sykes now.”
“Yes?” and Banderah's face at once assumed an expression of the most hopeless stupidity. “All right, Cap'en Sike. Come inside an' sit down.”
“Right, my boy,” said Bilker genially, fumbling in his coat pocket, and producing a large flask of rum, “I've brought you a drink, Bandy; and I want to have a yarn with you.”
“All right,” and taking the flask from the captain's hand without deigning to look at it, he passed it on to one of his wives. “What you want talk me about, Cap'en? You want me to get you some native for work on plantation?” and he smiled slily.
“No, no, Bandy. Nothing like that I don't run a labour ship now. I'm a big fellow gentleman now. I'm captain of that yacht.”
The chief nodded, but said nothing. He knew Captain “Sykes” of old, and knew him to be an undoubted rascal. Indeed, about ten years before the cunning blackbirder captain had managed to take thirty of Banderah's people away in his ship without paying for them; and the moment the chief recognised the sailor he set his keen native brain to work to devise a plan for getting square with him. And he meant to take deadly vengeance.
“Banderah, old man,” and the captain laid one hand on the chiefs naked knee, “I meant to pay you for those men when I came back next trip. But I was taken by a man-of-war,” here Bilker crossed his wrists to signify that he had been handcuffed; “taken to Sydney, put me in calaboose—ten years.”
“You lie,” said Banderah quietly, but with a danger spark in his eye, “man-o'-war no make you fas' for a long time after you steal my men. Plenty people tell me you make two more voyage; then man-o'-war catch you an' make you fas'.”
“Don't you believe 'em, Banderah,” began the ex-blackbirder, when the chief interrupted him—