and went off into the forest like a deer.

"Hold!" shouted Captain Gascoyne, as John turned, in a state of mingled
amazement and anger, to pursue. "Hold on, Bumpus; let the miserable
rascal go."

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