John stopped, looked over his shoulder, hesitated, and finally came back, with a rolling air of nautical indifference, and his hands thrust into his breeches pockets.

“You know best, capting,” said he; “but I think it a pity to let sich a dirty varmint go clear off, to dodge about in the bushes, and mayhap treat us to a poisoned arrow, or a spear thrust on the sly.  Howsomedever, it ain’t no consarn wotever to Jo Bumpus.  How’s your beak, Dick, my boy?”

“None the better for your askin’,” replied the surly mariner, who was tenderly stroking the injured member of his face with the fingers of both hands.

“Come, Dick, it is none the worse of being inquired after,” said Henry, laughing.  “But ’tis as well to let the fellow go.  He knows best how to cure his wound, by the application of a few simples; and by thus making off has relieved us of the trouble and responsibility of trying our hands at civilized doctoring.  Besides, John Bumpus (if that’s your name,—­though I do think your father might have found you a better), your long legs would never have brought you within a mile of the savage.”

“Young man,” retorted Jo, gravely, “I’d have you to know that the family of the Bumpuses is an old and a honorable one.  They comed over with the Conkerer to Ireland, where they picked up a deal o’ their good manners, after which they settled at last on their own estates in Yorkshire.  Though they have comed down in the world, and the last of the Bumpuses—­that’s me—­is takin’ a pleasure-trip round the world before the mast, I won’t stand by and hear my name made game of, d’ye see:  and I’d have ye to know, further, my buck, that the Bumpuses has a pecooliar gift for fightin’; and although you are a strappin’ young feller, you’d better not cause me for to prove that you’re conkerable.”

Having delivered himself of this oration, the last of the Bumpuses frowned portentously on the youth who had dared to risk his anger, and turning with a bland smile to surly Dick, asked him “if his beak was any better now.”

“There seems to be bad news in the letter, I think,” observed Henry, as Captain Gascoyne perused the epistle with evident signs of displeasure.

“Bad enough in these times of war, boy,” replied the other, folding the note and placing it in a pouch inside the breast of his flannel shirt.  “It seems that that pestiferous British frigate, the Talisman, lies at anchor in the bay on the other side of the island.”

“Nothing in that to cause uneasiness to an honest trader,” said Henry, leading the way up the steep path by which he had descended from the mountain region of the interior.