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"When I come to, the foot soldiers were carrying the Genelman through the door them long legs of is'n and all." His voice began to jerk. "Just the same only more paler-like." He was jigging with his knees, and the words joggled as they came out. "Then he see me. "'Hullo, Soldier, says he. 'No, no, don't get up, me trying to rise to me officer. 'We're both a bit dicky, I expect. How are you?
Keeping this turret in view, the youth stepped out so vigorously that he soon reached the small town that clustered round the church, and going up to the first man he met, said, "This is the town of St. Just, I suppose, is it not?" "No, et is'n; thee's come the wrang road, sur," replied the rustic. "This es Sennen church-town. St. Just es up over th' hill theere."
Talk! talk o talkin! and the face on him!" He lifted one hand and tittered. "Old Red Beard stagger in along just his beard, and his eyes, and his legs beneath, and them hairy arms of is'n like ropes round the fat chap's belly. "'Your turn now, ole pal, says he. 'How d'ye like it yourself? And somehow I fancies he and Fat George hadn't been best friends.
'E 'd get a couple of chiefs on board by deceiving 'em with rum, and hold 'em until 'is bloomin' schooner was chock-a-block with copra. The 'ole island would be working itself to death to free the chiefs. Then when 'e 'ad got the copra, 'e 'd steal a 'undred or two Kanakas and sell 'em in South America. "'E was smart, and yet 'e got 'is'n.
"I reckon 'twouldn't be no quicker by time us had hauled the 'orse and cart out. That there green is'n' no turf 't'all, 'tis a bog." Paul's attention was riveted in a moment. "That isn't one of the bogs that suck people right down, and kill them, is it?" he asked excitedly. "That's one on 'em," answered the boy; "that isn't so bad as some.
"'Too pretty to last, sir, says I; as our fore-mast went by the board. "Just then up runs the carpenter's mate all of a sweat. "'Well, Michael, says the Captain, 'what is it to-day? "'Goin down with a run, sir, pants old Chips. 'Twenty foot? water in her well. "The Captain turns to me. "'Where's the nearest land, Willum? says he, with that twinkle of is'n.
"'That you, Kit? he pipes through his nose that way of is'n. 'You've got it all your own way now. I'm a wreck. Good luck, Terrible. "So on we goes bang atween two Spanish Fust-rates hundud and twenty guns apiece. Had em all to ourselves, and asked no better. "'Just your style, Bill, says the Captain. He was pacing up and down the lee of the poop with me. 'Pretty work, ain't it?
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