"Moonin' round somewheres, poor thing. I reckon he's mighty near broke 'er heart. She don't seem to take no 'eed o' nothin', an' just navigates along plumb indifferent; dumb as a bloomin' Thames barge, with the look of a beaten dog in 'er big, mournful eyes."
A deep, half-smothered curse burst from Jack's pale lips, and springing suddenly to his feet, he wandered off unsteadily with bent head along the beach, feeling his way by the edge of the breakers.
The others watched him wonderingly. Jim got up, meaning to follow him; but Broncho motioned him down again, saying:
"Let him be, sonny!" Then, turning to the bluejacket, explained, "Our mate's blind, an' it kinder hits him on the raw at times."
But the anxiety in the cowboy's eyes robbed the easy tones of their indifference. The man received his explanation with a nod of the head.
"Sorter moody, eh? An' I don't wonder——"
"Seein' as you-alls wants to savvy why we comes a-pirootin' in disturbin' the ca'm salubrity o' your peaceful layout so abrupt an' precip'tite-like," broke in Broncho hurriedly, with a sudden change of conversation, "I'll just paw round in my mem'ry an' enlighten you some."
"Navigate ahead, governor, me ear-valves is open," said the bosun's mate politely.
"It's this way," drawled Broncho. "My bunkie there"—pointing to Jack's receding form—"me, an' the boy goes a-weavin' offen a ship into this here toomultuous sea without stoppin' to count the chips, we're in sech a hustle—some like the way you-alls vamooses the war-boat, I surmise. That 'ere event occurs away down south, crowdin' hard on two moons back. We-alls goes floatin' round in the swirlin' vortex o' them tempestuous waters, till things begin to look scaly; but finally we makes a landin' on what you-alls call a whaleship.
"It's there we meets up with Tari here, and another saddle-coloured gent who's locoed. This same saddle-coloured gent, which his name is Lobu, puts up sech a fervent play that we-alls has to corral him in a kind of calaboose forward; but it shore don't give him no bliss, an' he's that enraged an' indignant that he starts in to light a camp-fire down thar, allowin' as how he'll call the turn on us that-away, an' he mighty near rakes in the pot with that desp'rate play o' his. Though we-alls busts in an' tries to down the flames with wet sails an' liquid goods, it ain't no use; the deal goes agin us, an' we has to make tracks.