Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. I was born on an island in the South Seas. "Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely. Spurling. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. Within forty-eight hours the girl would be on her way east and the boy see-sawing the South China Sea, for ever moving at absolute angles. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. If my Mom found out, she’d kill me.
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