“What you do with my brother?” he said suddenly; “he die too, in Fiji?”
The white man's face paled. “I don't know, Banderah. I didn't know your brother was aboard when my mate put the hatches on. I thought he had gone ashore. I never meant to take him away to Fiji anyway.”
“All right; never mind that. But what you want talk to me about?” And then, as if to put his visitor at his ease, he added, “You dam rogue, me dam rogue.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Captain Bilker cheerfully; “but look here now, Bandy, I'm not only going to pay you for those men I took, but give you a lot of money as well—any amount of money; make you a big, rich chief; big as Maafu Tonga.{*} But I want you to help me.”
* Maafu of Tonga, the once dreaded rival of King Cacobau of
Fiji. He died in 1877.
“You speak me true?” inquired the chief.
“I swear it,” answered the captain promptly, extending his hand, which, however, Banderah did not appear to see.
“All right,” he said presently, after a silence of a few moments; then making a sign for his women and slaves to withdraw to the further end of the room, so that their muttered talk might not disturb the white man and himself, he lit his pipe and said, “Go on, tell me what you want me to do, Cap'en.”
“Look,” said the ex-blackbirder, laying a finger on the chiefs arm and speaking in a low voice, “these two white men on board the yacht have got any amount of money, gold, sovereigns—boxes and boxes of it They stole it; I know they stole it, although I didn't see them do it.”
Banderah nodded his huge, frizzy head. “I savee. These two fellow rogue, all same you an' me.”