“Well, this here be a queer craft, and no mistake,” said our new friend, who told us his name was “Bristol Bob,” or “Bob” for short, when he had squatted down on the after-deck alongside of Tom, who was steering. “Now, mates, fighting’s thirsty work; haven’t you ever a drop to drink,” asked Bristol Bob, “and a bit of bacca?”
I at once got him a drink of water, and said I’d hunt up some tobacco and a pipe for him.
“Water, lad? Well, I’ll have a drink; but haven’t you got anything better—no rum nor square gin?”
“There is a bottle of spirits, which we have kept; but it’s stowed away, and I can’t get it out unless we unstow the whole boat,” I answered.
“Never mind,” replied Bristol Bob, “I can do without it till we land. Fancy, lads, it’s three months since I’ve had a tot of grog, and till another trader comes round I shall have to go thirsty.”
All three of us—Tom, Bill, and myself—did not much care about this, for on board the Golden Fleece we had seen quite enough of the evils of drunkenness, and looked at each other rather gloomily. But all of a sudden I noticed that Bristol Bob’s shirt was stained with blood, and said to him,—
“Why, you’re wounded.”
“Why, yes, lad,” he said, “I believe I am; but you won’t think much of such a scratch as that when you’ve been knocking about as many years as I have.”
Tom and I, however, insisted on examining his wound while Bill steered, and pulling off his shirt we found under his left arm a small, punctured wound from which the blood was oozing slowly.
“Ah,” said Tom, “it don’t seem much; it ain’t more than a prick.”
One of the natives, however, who was watching what we were about, when he saw the wound, looked grave, and laying his paddle in, came and looked at it.
He said something to Bristol Bob which we did not understand, but as soon as he heard it the latter said,—
“Well, it don’t look much, but it may give me my walking ticket. Here, take my knife—it’s sharp enough; and if you can feel anything inside, cut it out.”
Tom felt carefully round the wound, and after some little time said,—
“I feel something like a splinter here, about an inch and a half from the hole.”
“Cut it out, then,” said Bristol Bob. “Don’t be afeared, but cut well in.”
Tom said he hardly liked to do so, but the wounded man insisted; so Tom cut in carefully, and found imbedded in the flesh a splinter of bone as sharp as a needle and two inches long, which he drew out and gave to his patient.
“Ah,” he said, “?’tis as I thought. It’s one of they bone-pointed arrows has struck me, and they’s woundy poisonous things.”
I had now taken off my own shirt, which was but a ragged garment, and begun to tear it into strips to bind the wound up, but Bristol Bob said,—
“No, lad; don’t bind it up yet. We’ll burn it a bit first to get the poison out. Have you a cartridge handy?”
“Why, yes,” I said. “What do you want done?”
“Just empty the powder into the cut, and set it alight, and you may give me the bullet to chew the while.”
I and Tom looked aghast at this proposal; but Bristol Bob insisted, and laid himself down so that the powder could be put in the wound, and taking the bullet in his mouth he told us to fire it.
He rolled about and groaned while the powder was fizzing and sputtering, but less than we had expected; and when it was burned out he gave a long breath, and said,—
“You can lash it up now, and put some oil or grease on it, if you have any.”
Fortunately, we had brought a little cocoanut oil from Ring Island with us, and soaking some rag in this we put it over the burnt wound, and lashed it in place as well as we were able.
By the time this was done we were past the point from which the canoes had put out, and saw behind it a large bay, in one corner of which was a little island some three hundred yards long and a hundred wide, on which was a hut with whitewashed walls standing in the middle of a grove of bananas.
“There’s my shanty, lads,” said Bristol Bob, who was smoking his pipe as if nothing was the matter with him. “I finds it best to be away from the mainland, for none of these people is to be trusted over much; though for the matter of that water don’t make much matter to them, for they swims like fishes. Up there,” he said, pointing to the other side of the bay, “is Wanga’s village—there where you see the cocoanuts growing in a cluster.”
We steered for Bristol Bob’s island, and found behind it a perfectly secure anchorage for the Escape, and moored her carefully, and cleared out all her cargo.
Bristol Bob told us we were welcome to quarters in his house, which consisted of two rooms, one of which was locked up, being a store, and the other, twelve feet by twenty, was the living-room and bedroom all in one.
Close by were half a dozen native huts, which were only like thatched roofs resting on the ground, without walls, and open at both ends, in which lived some of the natives who were in his employment.
The men, except those who had come back in the Escape with us, were away in the war-canoes; but a dozen women and a lot of children were about, and soon carried up our traps to the house, where we found Bristol Bob lying down on his bed groaning.
“Are you very bad?” said Tom. “What can we do for you?”
“Nought,” he replied. “It’s only the pain of the burn. But where’s that bottle of grog you spoke about? I’ll have a tot, and that maybe will send me to sleep.”
We tried to dissuade him from drinking while he was suffering from his wound, but it was of no avail. He possessed himself of our bottle, and drank more than half of it, with the addition of very little water; and then he put the bottle under his head, saying that it would be handy if he was thirsty, and soon after fell asleep.
The room was a queer place. In each corner was a sort of bed-place furnished with blankets and rugs, on one of which Bristol Bob was sleeping. In the middle was a rude table, not over clean, which, with some stools and chests, completed the furniture.
We stowed away our belongings, and then, being somewhat hungry, we thought of getting something to eat, and went outside to find a place where we could cook; but one of the women, when she saw us making a fire, made signs that she had something ready for us, and brought in a large tin dish, in which was a sort of stew of fowls and salt pork, and two great yams which had been roasted in the ashes, and put them on the table, with some salt and capsicums.
As she left us when she had placed the food on the table, we supposed we should have to eat, as we had hitherto been doing, with our knives, and from the comm............