“Hold you’s tongue!” said Big Chief, sternly. “Go way,” he added, to the female, who, with an acquiescent smile, left the room.
“Well, this is queer; an’ I feels queer. Queery—wots the meanin’ of it?” asked Jarwin.
“You’s bin bad, Jowin,” answered Big Chief, gravely, “wery bad. Dead a-most. Now, you’s goin’ to be bedder. Doctor say that—”
“Doctor!” exclaimed Jarwin in surprise, “what doctor?”
“Doctor of ship. Hims come ebbery day for to see you.”
“Ship!” cried Jarwin, springing up in his bed and glaring at Big Chief in wonder.
“Lie down, you Christian Breetish tar,” said the Chief, sternly, at the same time laying his large hand on the sailor’s chest with a degree of force that rendered resistance useless. “Hold you’s tongue an’ listen. Doctor say you not for speak. Me tell you all about it.
“Fust place,” continued Big Chief, “you’s bin bad, konsikince of de blackguard’s havin’ jump on you’s face an’ stummick. But we give ’em awful lickin’, Jowin—oh! smash um down right and left; got you out de canoe—dead, I think, but no, not jus’ so. Bring you here—Raratonga. De Cookee missionary an’ his wife not here; away in ship you sees im make. Native teecher here. Dat teecher’s wife bin nurse you an’ go away jus’ now. Ship comes here for trade, bound for England. Ams got doctor. Doctor come see you, shake ums head; looks long time; say he put you ‘all right.’ Four week since dat. Now, you’s hall right?”
The last words he uttered with much anxiety depicted on his countenance, for he had been so often deceived of late by Jarwin having occasional lucid intervals in the midst of his delirium, that his faith in him had been shaken.
“All right!” exclaimed Jarwin, “aye, right as a trivet. Bound for England, did ’ee say—the ship?”