“Ay, who was that, my little man?” said Adams.
“Isaac Martin’s big sow,” replied Dan, gravely.
The shout of laughter that followed this was not in proportion to the depth but the unexpectedness of the joke, and John Adams went on his way, chuckling at the impudence of what he called the precocious snipe.
In a short time the seaman found himself in a thicket, so dense that it was with difficulty he could make his way through the luxuriant underwood. On his left hand he could see the sky through the leaves, on his right the steep sides of the mountain ridge that divided the island.
Coming to a partially open space, he thought he saw the yellow side of a hog. He raised his gun to fire, when a squeaky grunt told him that this was a mother reposing with her family. He contented himself, therefore, with a look at them, and gave vent to a shout that sent them scampering down the hill.
Soon after that he came upon a solitary animal and shot it.
The report of the musket and the accompanying yell brought the Otaheitan man Tetaheite to his side.
“Well met, Tighty,” (so he styled him); “I want you to carry that pig to Mrs Adams. You didn’t see any cats about, did you?”
“No, sar.”
“Have you seen Mr Christian at the tanks this morning?”