“Give ’er one more shove!” cried Tom, in a glad voice, “an’ we’re clear.”
Just then each boy felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
The convict had crept up behind them.
Slowly, dreading what they knew they were going to see, each turned his head.
They met the inquiring gaze of Jean Petit. His face was adorned by a grin which was intended to be amiable, but Tom and Dave felt that they had never witnessed anything more hideous.
“Ah, ha!” cried Jean Petit, in his own peculiar English, “what are you doing here, my children?”
“N—n—nothink, s—ir.” spluttered Tom, vainly trying to wriggle out of his captor’s clutch.
Now, when an Australian boy uses the word “sir” he is certainly afraid.
“Aha!” cried Petit, in a rasping voice.
“N—n—nothink!” repeated Dave, wriggling in such a way as to create the impression that he really did not mean to. “No, sir, n—nothink. We only just landed ’ere.”