“Hold hard there, sir,” whispered Tom Jecks. “I can hear people talking. Quick! squat, hide; there’s a lot on ’em coming down off the cliff.”
We had just time to hide behind some rocks, when a party of about twenty Chinamen came cautiously and slowly down on to the sands, and Ching whispered as he peeped between the fragments of rock—
“Not allee pilate dlowned. Come along look at junk; take care; choppee off allee head; must hide.”
Ching was quite right, and I was awake to the fact that we three were prisoners on a little desert island, and in company with a gang of as savage and desperate enemies as man could have.
Chapter Forty Two.
For Dear Life.
It was all clear enough: the great junk which had so deceived Mr Brooke and Ching had been cast ashore and shattered, these men having escaped and been exploring the island, or perhaps they were only coming down now from the spot where they had taken refuge after being cast ashore.
“Why, Ching,” I whispered, “perhaps there are more of them about!”