Tudor, he said, was very sick, lying unconscious for days at a time, and,
when in his right mind, too weak to help himself.
"What name you no kill 'm that big fella marster?" Joan demanded. "He
have 'm good fella musket, plenty calico, plenty tobacco, plenty knife-
fee, and two fella pickaninny musket shoot quick, bang-bang-bang--just
like that."
The black smiled cunningly.
"Me savvee too much. S'pose me kill 'm big fella marster, bimeby plenty
white fella marster walk about Binu cross like hell. 'What name this
fellow musket?' those plenty fella white marster talk 'm along me. My
word, Binu Charley finish altogether. S'pose me kill 'm him, no good
along me. Plenty white fella marster cross along me. S'pose me no kill
'm him, bimeby he give me plenty tobacco, plenty calico, plenty
everything too much."
"There is only the one thing to do," Sheldon said to Joan.
She drummed with her hand and waited, while Binu Charley gazed wearily at
her with unblinking eyes.
"I'll start the first thing in the morning," Sheldon said.
"We'll start," she corrected. "I can get twice as much out of my
Tahitians as you can, and, besides, one white should never be alone under
such circumstances."
He shrugged his shoulders in token, not of consent, but of surrender,
knowing the uselessness of attempting to argue the question with her, and
consoling himself with the reflection that heaven alone knew what
adventures she was liable to engage in if left alone on Berande for a
week.
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