The words were hardly out of his mouth when a shout came from the side of the stockade fronting the inlet.
"Here be Flint's Redhead!"
And conflicting cries:
"Shoot mun!"
"'Tis flag o' truce!"
"Ta lucky lad!"
We ran forward to the stockade, bidding the men withhold their fire, and Peter boosted me up on the cross-bar that bound the logs together. From this height I could survey the denuded slopes of the hill and the jungle growth of scrub trees and bush that cinctured it. And forth from the forest wall projected the unmistakable flaming locks of Darby McGraw, with one arm which flourished diligently what once had been a white shirt. At the first glimpse of me he scrambled into the open.
"Will ye be letting me come in, Master Bob?" he called.
"Why, that depends," I answered him. "Are you for spying upon us?"
"Sure, the thought was never in me mind. I ha' a message for himself."