“Dyin’ ain’t any fun, eh?”
“Mr. Nevens wouldn’t really hurt us, would he, Butch?” asked Stanley innocently.
“Naw,” said Butch. “He don’t like to kill kids, not with guns. He’s partial ta fryin’ them in oil!”
This outburst of humor called for a big laugh; so Butch enjoyed his own joke to its fullest.
“Well, blow me down!” observed John. “And cook me for a sweet potato! By all the chinks in far Hong Kong! ‘Sweep the floor, oh, Sally dear, for father’s comin’ home!’”
He would have gone on in that characteristic manner, half singing, half talking, but Stan stopped him, amused at John’s excited remarks, in spite of the tense situation.
“You don’t think up them sayings all yourself?” queried Butch. “Now, do you?”
“Serve the coffee piping hot and sally down the forepeak, Tim!” began John again, in deep disgust while he glared at Butch with eyes that spoke volumes.
“How does that go?” Butch asked. “Say, say that again, kid, that was a good one!”
But John had lapsed into a forlorn silence which was broken now and then by a slight muttering. Stan leaned back, trying to think of a way out of their predicament and Butch, after staring at John as if he were something on exhibition in a zoo, began to nod and blink sleepily. He yawned and gaped profusely, slid down further in his chair, and half-closed his eyes. Dago might be frightened by two kids, but Butch had no misgivings! Unfortunate Butch——!