“He no speakee English,” said Popo, who had just scrambled into the canoe.
“Why, Dicky Popo,” cried the commander, “you here, my boy!”
I could not resist shaking Popo by the hand, so delighted was I to see him.
“Yes, massa cappen; me no drownee,” he answered.
“That’s very evident,” said the commander; “and I shall be glad to know how you escaped. But first I want you to set the mind of this poor lad at rest, as he seems in a great fright. Tell him we are friends, and will do him no harm, for he does not understand what I say to him.”
Popo, more by signs than words, quickly succeeded in tranquillising the lad.
“Who is he?” asked the commander, “for his skin is as white as ours; and I cannot suppose that he is a native.”
“He not say who he is,” answered Popo; “but by-and-by perhaps talkee more.”
“Well, we must wait patiently,” said the commander. “Ask him if he has any objection to accompany us; and if he is ready to come we will take you and him into the gig, while we tow the canoe astern.” After a few more signs and incomprehensible words had passed between Popo and the white boy, they both stepped into the gig; the latter still holding the pearls in his hand, which, as soon as he was seated, he again offered to the commander, who this time received them, and after examining them put them into his pocket. The canoe was then made fast to the gig astern, and we continued our course round the island.
The commander was engaged in noting its headlands and bays and other features, and could not give his attention to the lad; but I lost no time in trying to learn from Popo how he had escaped,—also drawing from him anything he knew about the white boy. On the first point he quickly enlightened me.