CHAPTER XI.
THE BREAKING WAVE.
As the day lightened, the wind fell, and by sunrise, it was nearly calm in the small bay, although we could see the breeze roughening the blue waters out at sea.
Presently, Mr ***'s negroes came on board; but before determining what to do, or proceeding with our repairs, we endeavoured to get out of them some more information regarding the privateers, to give them no worse a name, and their crews; apparently, however, they knew nothing beyond what we were already acquainted with.
"Nice peoples dem—Captain Wallace! Oh, quite one gentleman—plenty money—plenty grog—Ah, wery nice peoples," was all that Quashie knew or seemed to care about—at least all that he would say.
While we were yet irresolute as to the prudence of stripping the mast, with such gentry almost within earshot, a small dory, or light canoe, shoved her black snout round the headland on which the cocoa-nuts grew, paddled by a solitary figure in the stern, with an animal of some kind or another stuck up, monkey-fashion, in the bow, which, as it came nearer, I perceived to be a most noble Spanish bloodhound. I looked earnestly at the stranger through the glass, and concluded at once that he could be no other than our friend of the preceding evening.
"I say, Lennox"—he had been standing at my elbow the minute before—"that's my man—there"—pointing with the telescope.
"Mr Lennox is below, sir," said Tooraloo, "but you are right; it is him, sure enough."
The man paddled briskly alongside, when the bloodhound caught a rope in his teeth, that was hanging over, and, setting his feet against the bowpost, held on until his master jumped on board, which he did with the most perfect sang-froid.
"Now for it," thought I; "he is come to tell us civilly that we are to have our throats cut for shooting one of his beauties last night."