“No,” said Dan slowly; “not hurt much; I think no bones broken. But what is it? What’s all this about? Somebody fell on me, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Tom, grimly; “somebody did. If you knew as much about him as we do you’d reckon you was lucky you ain’t got a knife in your neck.”
“He would, too,” corroborated Dave, “only I see ’im drop it when you fired the first shot.”
“I must ’a’ hit him then,” said Tom, in a glad voice. “I knowed I couldn’t ’a’ missed him clean at that distance. Why it wasn’t more’n fifty yards at the outside, an’ I killed a wallaby with a pea-rifle at fifty five.”
“Yes,” said Dave, “he’s hit on the arm; see the blood on his shirt.”
Petit scowled.
“What is the meaning of all this?” demanded Dan Creyton, rising painfully to his feet.
Petit broke into a torrent of words. He declared, in rapid, broken English, that he had been attacked by the two boys—they were his children by adoption. They had run away, he was following them; they had turned upon him, fired at him, and wounded him in two places. He had leaped upon the strangers not knowing where he was going or what he was doing, thinking, too, that they had joined the attack. He was innocent of all things. Let them release him at once; dreadful punishment would be meted out to them if they persisted. It was murder, outrage, against the law of the country. Would these gentlemen countenance such things? Compel that boy to remove the firearm; it might go off—then they would all be hung for murder. Let them untie the bonds at once.
“Hold on!” interrupted Tom Pagdin, turning to George and Dan. “I got something to say, too. I got,” he began, stepping back three or four paces, but still aiming at Petit’s head, “that is, me an’ my mate, ’as got to turn Queen’s evidence. We got to do it some time, so we might as well do it at onct an’ have done with it.”
“Say,” he went on, “have either of you chaps got a Bible on you?”