'Tapena Tom harry my,'[1] said the spokesman, pointing.
And the three beachcombers, following his indication, saw the figure of a man in pyjama trousers and a white jumper approaching briskly from the town.
'That's Tapena Tom, is it?' said the captain, pausing in his music. 'I don't seem to place the brute.'
'We'd better cut,' said the clerk. ''E's no good.'
'Well,' said the musician deliberately, 'one can't most generally always tell. I'll try it on, I guess. Music has charms to soothe the savage Tapena, boys. We might strike it rich; it might amount to iced punch in the cabin.'
'Hiced punch? O my!' said the clerk. 'Give him something 'ot, captain. "Way down the Swannee River;" try that.'
'No, sir! Looks Scotch,' said the captain; and he struck, for his life, into 'Auld Lang Syne.'
Captain Tom continued to approach with the same business-like alacrity; no change was to be perceived in his bearded face as he came swinging up the plank: he did not even turn his eyes on the performer.
- ↑ Captain Tom is coming.
