“Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o’ this here abominably real-lookin’ imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus! why it’s—”
Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.
“Ha! you’ve come to let me out, have you?” cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.
“Have I, though!” said the man, setting down the food on a small deal table that stood at the head of the bedstead; “don’t think it, my man; your time’s up in another two hours—hallo! where got ye the dog?”
“It came in with me last night—to keep me company, I fancy, which is more than the human dogs o’ this murderin’ place had the civility to do.”
“If it had know’d you was a murderin’ pirate,” retorted the jailer, “it would ha’ thought twice before it would ha’ chose you for a comrade.”
“Come, now,” said Bumpus, in a remonstrative tone, “you don’t really b’lieve I’m a pirate, do you?”
“In coorse I do.”
“Well, now, that’s xtraor’nary. Does everybody else think that too?”
“Everybody.”