“Iss,” says he, with a nod that looked as if it was jerked out of him by a most violent hiccup—­which is the way with those savages.

I cast my eyes at Charker, and we both heard the pumps going aboard the sloop, and saw the signal run up, “Come on board; hands wanted from the shore.”  In no time some of the sloop’s liberty-men were already running down to the water’s edge, and the party of seamen, under orders against the Pirates, were putting off to the Columbus in two boats.

“O Christian George King sar berry sorry!” says that Sambo vagabond, then.  “Christian George King cry, English fashion!” His English fashion of crying was to screw his black knuckles into his eyes, howl like a dog, and roll himself on his back on the sand.  It was trying not to kick him, but I gave Charker the word, “Double-quick, Harry!” and we got down to the water’s edge, and got on board the sloop.

By some means or other, she had sprung such a leak, that no pumping would keep her free; and what between the two fears that she would go down in the harbour, and that, even if she did not, all the supplies she had brought for the little colony would be destroyed by the sea-water as it rose in her, there was great confusion.  In the midst of it, Captain Maryon was heard hailing from the beach.  He had been carried down in his hammock, and looked very bad; but he insisted on being stood there on his feet; and I saw him, myself, come off in the boat, sitting upright in the stern-sheets, as if nothing was wrong with him.

A quick sort of council was held, and Captain Maryon soon resolved that we must all fall to work to get the cargo out, and that when that was done, the guns and heavy matters must be got out, and that the sloop must be hauled ashore, and careened, and the leak stopped.  We were all mustered (the Pirate-Chace party volunteering), and told off into parties, with so many hours of spell and so many hours of relief, and we all went at it with a will.  Christian George King was entered one of the party in which I worked, at his own request, and he went at it with as good a will as any of the rest.  He went at it with so much heartiness, to say the truth, that he rose in my good opinion almost as fast as the water rose in the ship.  Which was fast enough, and faster.

Mr. Commissioner Pordage kept in a red-and-black japanned box, like a family lump-sugar box, some document or other, which some Sambo chief or other had got drunk and spilt some ink over (as well as I could understand the matter), and by that means had given up lawful possession of the Island.  Through having hold of this box, Mr. Pordage got his title of Commissioner.  He was styled Consul too, and spoke of himself as “Government.”

He was a stiff-jointed, high-nosed old gentleman, without an ounce of fat on him, of a very angry temper and a very yellow complexion.  Mrs. Commissioner Pordage, making allowance for difference of sex, was much the same.  Mr. Kitten, a small, youngish, bald, botanical and mineralogical gentleman, also connected with the mine—­but everybody there was that, more or less—­was sometimes called by Mr. Commissioner Pordage, his Vice-commissioner, and sometimes his Deputy-consul.  Or sometimes he spoke of Mr. Kitten, merely as being “under Government.”