Then his tongue had to be between his lips, else how could he write?
Bob, as we know, had another peculiar habit; he could not think without scratching his head.
So, taken altogether, writing was an arduous undertaking.
After several attempts, Bob declared himself satisfied with his effusion.
It was as peculiar as the writer himself. Some of the letters were printed, and gave the missive a very strange appearance, especially when the printed letter came in the middle of a word.
"He made me swear not to tell," the letter commenced, "or your hair would stand on end."
"That's good!" he murmured. "I ain't splitting."
His spelling was as bad as his writing, but those little mistakes we have rectified, as it is with the subject matter, not the correctness of the orthography or chirography, that we have to deal.
"But if I dare tell you, you'd put all the prisoners in irons before the night got dark, and there may be bullets underneath the tin. Your boy, Bob."
When perfectly satisfied with the epistle, Bob began to wonder how he could give it to Tempest without the act being seen.
After considerable head scratching, he put the paper on Tempest's plate, the dinner table being set.
Then he stood outside the cabin to watch whether the letter reached its proper destination.
Lieutenant Tempest saw the paper as soon as he entered the cabin, and was very much inclined to resent the placing of dirty paper on his dinner plate.
But when he saw Bob's signature, he became amused.
He was about to throw the document away, when Bob shouted from the outside:
"Ah! You there, Bob? What is it? Want more grog, or extra biscuits, or is it something you want for Mr. Scarron?"
Bob happened to see Luiga nearby, and knew that the West Indian was listening.
"Yes, cap'n," he answered, "the doctor sent me for some, and I didn't see you, so I wrote it down."
Tempest glanced over the paper, and saw at once that Bob was acting very diplomatically.
"Will you ask the doctor to see me about it? He had better come at once."
Luiga heard Tempest's remark and felt easier.
"Thought he had split. If he had I would have slit his throat for him before he was an hour older."
"'He made me swear.' Who did? 'Make my hair stand on end,' 'put prisoners in irons before night got dark'--really, Bob, your composition is an enigma. 'Bullets may be under the tin.' It is a conundrum hard to read."