“Do, Rube?—nought. If we says a word again Pentlea or Camacho they’ve their bowies and pistols ready, and our answer from them wouldn’t be long a-coming.”
“Say, Silas, I’ve a plan. We can hinder the job, I reckon, and nary one be the wiser.”
“How so? Tell me at once.”
“Why, that boy, he ain’t no fool, for all he’s so tarnal quiet. Now, what time the brig comes up we’ll jest let him hook it.”
“How now? he can’t swim ashore. There’s as many alligators here as are in a bayou in Florida; and when he gets to land he can’t pass the village, and through the swamps no mortal man could pass.”
“Sure, man, I ain’t quite a fool. But s’pose the brig comes up on the flood to-morrow about six bells in the forenoon watch. Camacho can do nothin’ that day, and the lad may make tracks in a canoe, say at two bells in the first watch; and I guess we can manage that.”
“So, p’raps; but I guess we must be spry, or that fellow Sour Simon and his pal Camacho, if they only has the leastest thought we has done ought in the matter, I guess they’ll give us a passage overboard.”
“Maybe; but I don’t care to be pirate, mate. If you ain’t got grit to go through with it, I’ll do it myself; for my dander’s riz, and I’ll get the lad aboard the Petrel.”
“I’m with you. Don’t say I ain’t got grit; but jest keep a close luff, and don’t let nary a man know.”
“All right, mate. Let’s go down and have a hand at euchre.”