"
"Two years!" laughed Joe; and then, with a great roar of delight, he
adds, "Went off my nut! In dungeon. Clean off my nut!"
"What Joe means," whispers Mr. Wells, slowly and dogmatically, "is that,
while he was in prison in Alabama Harbour, he lost his reason: 'Off his
nut' is slang for losing his reason. Now, I dare say that that is true.
I shouldn't be surprised if it was."
"Then I went Canada," bellows Joe, striking a fresh match. "Buff'lo
hunter! Ho! Ho! Fought the Injuns. Red Injuns. Killed hundreds. _Slish!
C-r-r-r-r! Bang! Dash! Gurrrr!_ Hundreds. Red Injuns! I killed hundreds
myself. Ho! Ho! I dashed their brains out. Ho! Ho! Injuns. Red Injuns!"
It is some time before he grows really calm after illustrating with
tremendous energy his ferocity against the poor Red Indians. Even Mr.
Wells grows enthusiastic, and, sucking his pipe-stem, chuckles proudly
over Joe's enormous valour.
But what a fall it is when Joe resumes his life. From being a pirate, a
fighter, and a buffalo-hunter, he becomes--think of it!--a pastrycook.
He leaves the magnificent society of Jack Armstrong, and Black Peter,
and Red Indians, to mix with the commonplace citizens of London--as a
pastrycook! He makes buns. He makes sponge cakes. Think of it--he makes
jam-puffs!
* * * * *
But romance could not leave Joe, even while he toiled before a London
oven.
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