Cynthia fixed him with her glances as long as she could hold her tongue between her teeth, then turned and walked away with dignity.
"Now that girl's mad! And she'll go and tell Mary 'Zekel, and I promised Mary 'Zekel—Where'd we better put that damn thing, anyway?"
I aided the old man as he rolled the cask nearer our camping place, if the spot where we had deposited our few belongings could be called such. We had placed our cooking utensils—or the Bo's'n had for us—the parrot's cage, and the mortuary bag in a secluded spot among the trees. There happened to be a depression in the earth near where we sat, up beyond the line of the beach in the soft earth. We tumbled the cask in and covered it well with leaves and branches. Cynthia, whose curiosity would not allow her to remain longer away, had returned, and was watching our efforts.
"If they come back, they will demand it," remarked Cynthia.
"What! Those honest sailors?" inquired I.
I was still sore from her ill treatment of me. Cynthia's face, as much as I could see of it, was a brilliant crimson.
"Have they any weapons, Uncle Tony?" she asked, ignoring me entirely.
"Got pistols, I'll be bound, every man Jack of 'em!—By the way, Jones, what have we got in the way of firearms?"
I threw back my thin coat and displayed a pistol stuck in my belt in either side.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cynthia. "If I had known that you carried those murderous weapons, I should have refused to come ashore with you."