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12 The Sea Gypsy
"What you say, Cap'n? You mean plenty fellow who kill men live here?"
I grinned to myself, and said impressively, "Johnny, on that island there are more than ten thousand murderers. And what's more, Johnny, in the jungle are naked coal-black dwarfs, who kill everybody they see with bows and arrows."
Johnny said nothing for a minute, but from watching his face I could see he hadn't been so scared since the day when Sam, my former black cook, brandishing a butcher knife, had chased him up the mainmast for stealing grub from the galley. Finally the little Tahitian shook his head: "Well, Cap'n, Johnny he no go ashore there. He stay on ship." And Johnny kept his word. During our two weeks' stay on the islands he never left the boat.
But Andy, too, had heard the title "Murderers' Island," and there was a great buzzing of talk forward as the watch began to tumble up on deck at the word of land in sight. This crew of mine staring out toward the distant shore made a strange appearance, as strange, I think, as ever was collected on one ship. White and brown and yellow, most of them bare to the waist and with the loose skirt-like sarong or paren falling to the knee, all barefoot. Beside Little Johnny and Andy, there were Big Johnny, the Bos 'un, the son of a Fijian Princess and a Scotch trader, a perfectly built specimen of manhood; old Joe, a wizened Malay; Jean, a pearl diver from the Paumotos, small, silent and hardy; Jack, a Fijian bushman; Red from Seattle; and "Chu" and