“That was my own opinion,” returned the sailor, “till I seed him go slap through yon port-hole like a harlequin.”
“P’r’aps he tink he kin do us more service w’en free dan as a prisoner,” suggested Ebony.
“There’s somethin’ in that,” returned Hockins, lifting his hand to stroke his beard, as was his wont when thoughtful. He lifted it, however, with some difficulty, owing to the heavy chain.
They were still engaged in conversation about their prospects when the prison-door again opened, and two men were ushered in. Both wore white lambas over their other garments. One was tall and very dark. The other was comparatively slender, and not so tall as his companion. For a moment the strangers stood contemplating the prisoners, and Mark’s attention was riveted on the smaller man, for he felt that his somewhat light-coloured and pleasant features were not unfamiliar to him, though he could not call to mind where or when he had seen him. Suddenly it flashed across him that this was the very man to whose assistance he had gone, and whose wounds he had bound up, soon after his arrival in the island.
With a smile of recognition, Mark rose and extended his hand as far as his chain permitted. The young native stepped forward, grasped the hand, and pressed it warmly. Then he looked round at his tall companion, and spoke to him in his own tongue, whereupon the tall man advanced a step, and said in remarkably bad English—
“You save me frind life one taime ago. Ver’ good—him now you save.”
“Thank him for that promise,” said Mark, greatly relieved to find at least one friend among the natives in his hour of need.
“But,” continued the Interpreter, “you muss not nottice me frind nowhar. Unerstand?”
“Oh yes, I think I do,” returned Mark, with an intelligent look. “I suppose he does not wish people to think that he is helping or favouring us?”
“That’s him! you’s got it!” replied the Interpreter, quite pleased apparently with his success in the use of English.