Catching sight of these, Jim gave an exclamation of horror.
"Mercy, look at those devil-faces!" he gasped.
"Devil-faces—which that ain't no compliment to the devil, an' I reckon he's plumb mortified at sech remyarks. Them feachers is that fearful they're suffeecient to promote silence in a hoot-owl," remarked Broncho solemnly.
"This cabin is surely the dime-museum you were talking about," said Jack, with a laugh.
"It's shore liable to give a gent who's been some free with the nosepaint the jimjams in a highly variegated form. It would knock him offen his mental reservation quicker'n a bullet out of a Winchester."
After searching through the berths, Broncho and Jack managed to find clothes which fitted them; but Jim had to close-reef the legs of his trousers and the ends of his sleeves before he could get his hands and feet to appear.
Clad once more in dry raiment, they then made a descent upon the deceased captain's stateroom, and overhauled the log-book.
It was a gloomy perusal.
They found the statements of the Kanaka Tari to be correct, and the log had been written up to within the last month.