Plays!" He scowled ferociously. "Fat lot
o' good they are, for skippers, and planters, and gory exiles! Eh, what?
Be-george, I'll write him a chit! _I'll_ tell him! Plays be damned; we
want more stories!"
Red and savage, he hurled the book fluttering into the sea, then swore
in consternation.
"Oh, I say!" he wailed. "Fish her out! I've not finished her. My
intention was, ye know, to fling the bloomin' cigar!"
Heywood, laughing, rescued the volume on a long bamboo.
"Just came out on the look-see, captain," he called up. "Can't board
you. Plague ashore."
"Plague be 'anged!" scoffed the little captain. "That hole's no worse
with plague than't is without. Got two cases on board, myself--coolies.
Stowed 'em topside, under the boats.--Come up here, ye castaway! Come
up, ye goatskin Robinson Crusoe, and get a white man's chow!"
He received them on deck,--a red, peppery little officer, whose shaven
cheeks and close gray hair gave him the look of a parson gone wrong, a
hedge-priest run away to sea. Two tall Chinese boys scurried about with
wicker chairs, with trays of bottles, ice, and cheroots, while he barked
his orders, like a fox-terrier commanding a pair of solemn dock-rats.
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