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"We's allers ready to fight in a good cause," remarked Moses, just before filling his mouth with rice. "Or to die in it!" added Verkimier, engulfing the breast of a chicken at a bite. "But as zee pirates are not expected for some days, ve may as vell go after zee mias zat is what zee natifs call zee orang-utan. It is a better word, being short."
"What does he say?" asked Nigel. "Dat Massa Verkimier is in full chase, an' it's my opinion dat when he comes back he'll be wet all ober, and hab his shins and elbows barked." "Why d'you think so?" "'Cause dat's de way he goed on when we was huntin' wid him last year. He nebber larns fro' 'sperience."
Men are sometimes killed by zis fruit. Here now ve vill dine." They sat down on a bank which was canopied by ferns. While the boy was arranging their meal, Verkimier drew a heavy hunting-knife from his belt and, applying it with an unusually strong hand to the Durian, laid it open. Nigel did not at all relish the smell, but he was not fastidious or apt to be prejudiced.
Such were a few of the thoughts that burned but found no utterance. The last thought however led to action. Verkimier, foolish man! was a smoker. He carried fusees. Slowly, with no more apparent motion than the hour-hand on the face of a watch, he let his hand glide into his coat-pocket and took out the box of fusees.
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