"That were 'er on'y defec', though; otherwise she wos a' appy ship. Full er talent, too. Gunnery very fair, footer team first chop, the dramy a bloomin' constellation o' stars o' the first magnitude, finest squee-jee band in the Pacific, whilst our Jimmy Bungs[14] was er artist on the cinder-track. Wot more d'you want? But I guess my jaw-tackle's workin' too free. Give that cocoa-juice a fair wind, will ye, sonny," and he pointed to the pile of cocoanuts amidships. "Do you-alls reckon that this war-canoe o' yours is browsin' around anyways handy hereabouts?" inquired Broncho. "She was diggin' out for a bit er cannibalisin' through the Line Islands when I took my fancy dive." "Then I surmise that we can diskyard the war-canoe from our hand as bein' wo'thless." "I don't think we are likely to get picked up," said Jack, from the bottom of the boat. "The Paumotus are far from being popular with Island traders, and we are much too far to the west for any of the Cape Horners." "That's so," admitted the bosun's mate. "We came through the Paumotus in the old _Dido_, an' did some fancy navigatin' at that, scrapin' our weeds off on coral reefs, an' jammin' through tide-rip channels with the wind jumpin' all round the compass. I went all cold up my back more'n once, muckin' through them bloomin' reefs." "Ain't we goin' to stop at any of the islands on the way?" asked Jim anxiously. "Not if we can help it," replied the rover. "I had a bit of trouble in the Low Archipelago once, and haven't forgotten it. You remember, Lolie, in the old _Moonbeam_?" "Yes," muttered the woman, and shivered. "Cawpse an' cartridge occasion, Jack?" inquired the cowpuncher in his off-hand way. "Pretty near. Shooting in the South Seas is more noise than business though, sometimes." "Every tuppeny bust-up is a 'orrible war. One copper-coloured coon with a slit skin will give t'other side a big vict'ry. Some er these Low Islands, howsomedever, is 'most perishin' for long-pig stakes, an' enjoys massacretin' whites now and agen if they gets the chaunce," said Bill Benson. The afternoon passed in tobacco-smoke and siestas, and with the stars came back Jack's eyesight, which event always seemed to give him renewed life. "Out of it, Bill," he cried, springing to his feet. "It's my wheel now, and your watch below." "Them sidelights o' yours is the most mysterious be'aved optics I's ever shipmates with. I think you oughter adopt more drastic measures than them blighted bandages. Them eyes o' yours have run outer oil or somethin', or mebbe wants trimmin'," exclaimed the bosun's mate as he shifted places. "The nerve's gone wrong somehow." "It's that 'ere luminary that puts the hobbles on 'em. It was him cold-decked you, Jack," asserted Broncho.