"In his house," said I, as I hurried along the path. "Come on, let's go to the boat."
"Where four Kanaka pull boat?" asked Peter.
"I don't know," said I. "I haven't seen 'em."
"Where trade? gun—hatchet—tobacker?"
"In Bailey's house. He has taken that. He tried to take me, too."
Just then a single savage, evidently a person of note, hideously tattooed, dashed diagonally across the path ahead of us, and into the bushes, heading for the beach by a short cut. Peter whipped out his sheath-knife, and gave chase, I followed, shouting to him to stop; which he did, seeing that pursuit was hopeless.
"What would you do with that knife, Peter?" I said.
"Cut him," answered my Kanaka, dryly.
"If you did so our lives would not be worth a straw. Put up your knife, Peter; we can do nothing fighting against a whole tribe of these scoundrels."