" "I no
understan';" said the Frenchman. "They pickle people's heads," said
the old sailor, "in the sand or somethin'. They keep for ever pretty
near when once they're pickled. They pickle every one's head and sell
'em in Lima: I've knowed 'em get a matter of three pound for a good
head." "Heads?" said another sailor. "I had one myself once. I got
it at Tacna, but it wasn't properly pickled or something--it was a
red-headed beggar the chap as owned it--I had to throw it away. It got
too strong for the crowd," he explained. "Ah zose Indians," said the
Frenchman. "I 'ave 'eard; zey tell me, zey tell me at Valparaiso. But
ah, it ees a fool; it ees a fool; zere is no Indians." "Beg pardon,
sir," said the old sailor, "but if you go up among them jokers, you'll
have to look slippy with a gun, sir," "Ah, a gon," he answered, "a
gon. I was not to be bozzered wiz a gon. I 'ave what you call
'eem--peestol." He produced a boy's derringer, which might have cost
about ten dollars, Spanish dollars, in the pawnshops of Santiago.
"Peestol," murmured a sailor, gasping, as he shambled forward to laugh,
"peestol, the gawdem Dago's balmy."
During the next few days I saw the Frenchman frequently.
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