The surprise was mutual, and, for an instant, Bob and the negro stared at each other. Fortunately the negro had no firearms. He drew his machete, but before he could aim a stroke with it, Bob had leaped forward and struck his arm a fierce blow with the butt of Jordan’s revolver.
A yell of pain fell from the negro’s lips, his arm dropped at his side, and he jumped backward into the woods.
“Quick!” shouted Bob to those behind. “There may be others with him, and we’ll have to make a dash for the Grampus. Run on ahead, Dick, and get the submarine up and close to the bank. I’ll follow you with Ysabel.”
Dick would have demurred at this arrangement, but a chorus of wild yells, issuing from the wood, proved that the negro had spread the alarm.
“The boat will be ready for you,” shouted Dick, as he passed like a streak along the path.
Seizing the girl’s arm, and keeping the revolver in hand, Bob started on as rapidly as the girl could go.
CHAPTER XII.
BY A NARROW MARGIN.
Ysabel made poor work of the flight.
“Go on,” she begged; “don’t try to save me. You can get away if you don’t have to bother to help me along.”