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Wilbur was below tinkering with his paint-pot about the cabin. The stillness was profound. It was the stillness of the summer sea at high noon. The lookout in the crow's nest broke the quiet. "Hy-yah, hy-yah!" he cried, leaning from the barrel and calling through an arched palm. "Hy-yah, one two, plenty, many tortle, topside, wattah; hy-yah, all-same tortle."
Jim, the only member of the crew besides Charlie who could understand or speak English, answered: "Kai-gingh him fin' pistol, you' pistol; Charlie him fight plenty; bime-by, when he no see, one-piecee Kai-gingh he come up behin', shoot um Charlie in side savvy?" "Did he kill him? Is he dead?" "No, I tinkum die plenty soon; him no savvy nuttin' now, him all-same sleep.
"Topside man catchee my inside godown this time, ch'hoy! he makee big bobbely." "Never mind about that. I'll pay the fine." "No can do, no can do so-fashion. Massa pay squeeze; all-same, my catchee plenty bobbely, makee my too muchee sick." "I'll take care you don't suffer. Come along: there's no time to lose." "This time Sunday, look-see, massa. No workee Sunday, no fear; that joss-pidgin day."
"Hello, hello!" cried the Captain, rolling from his hammock. "Turtle? Where-away?" "I tink-um 'bout quallah mile, mebbee, four-piecee tortle all-same weatha bow." "Turtle, hey? Down y'r wheel, Jim, haul y'r jib to win'ward," he commanded the man at the wheel; then to the men forward: "Get the dory overboard. Son, Charlie, and you, Wing, tumble in. Wake up now and see you stay so."
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