oken
biscuit, a lump of salt beef, several cocoa-nuts, a horn of gunpowder,
and a bag of shot and ball--all of which he spread out in front of the
fire with much ostentation. The satisfaction caused by this was very
great, and even Muggins, in the fulness of his heart, declared that
after all there were worse things than being lost in a forest.

"Well, and how did you manage to get away?" said Will, returning to the
original question.

"Git away? why, dis here wos de way. When me did see the rincumcoshindy
goin' on ashore, me say, `Now, Bunco, you time come; look alive;' so,
w'en de raskil called de fuss mate orders out de boat in great hurry, me
slip into it like one fish. Then dey all land an' go off like mad into
de woods arter you--as you do knows. Ob coorse me stop to look arter de
boat; you knows it would be very bad to go an' leave de boat all by its
lone, so w'en deys gone into de woods, me take the mate's gun and
poodair an' shot an' ebbery ting could carry off--all de grub, too, but
der worn't too moche of dat--and walk away in anoder d'rection. Me is
used to de woods, you sees, so kep' clear o' de stoopid seamans, who
soon tires der legses, as me knows bery well; den come round in dis
d'rection; find you tracks; foller im up; shoots tree birds; sees a
tiger; puts a ball in him skin, an' sends him to bed wid a sore head--
too dark for kill him--arter which me find you out, an' here me is.
Dere. Dat's all about it."

"A most satisfactory account of yourself," said Will Osten.

"An' purtily towld," observed Larry; "where did ye larn English, boy,
for ye have the brogue parfict, as me gran'mother used to say to the pig
when she got in her dotage (me gran'mother, not the pig), `only,' says
she, `the words isn't quite distinc'.' Couldn't ye give us a skitch o'
yer life, Bunco?"

Thus appealed to, the gratified native began without hesitation, and
gave the following account of himself:--

"Me dun know when me was born--"

"Faix, it wasn't yesterday," said Larry, interrupting.

"No, nor de day before to-morrow nother," retorted Bunco; "but it was in
Callyforny, anyhow. Me fadder him wos a Injin--"

"Oh! come!" interrupted Muggins in a remonstrative tone.

"Yis, him _wos_ a Injin," repeated Bunco stoutly.

"Wos he a _steam-ingine_?" inquired Muggins with a slight touch of
sarcasm.

"He means an Indian, Muggins," explained Will.

"Then why don't he say wot he means? However, go ahead, Ebony."