“What! Joeboy?” I cried.
“No; Master Moriarty.”
“But that would be murder—assassination,” I cried.
“You can use what fine words you like over it,” said the Sergeant gruffly; “but I call it, at a time like this, war; and when Mr Joe Black comes back—as I expect he will, soon—and you ask him, he’ll say he was only fighting for his master; and that’s you.”
I was silenced for the moment, though my ideas were quite opposed to the Sergeant’s theory.
But Denham spoke out at once.
“That’s all very well, Sergeant,” he said, “but Mr Moray’s black boy is about as savage over his ideas of justice as he is over his ideas of decency in dress. He looks upon this man as an enemy, and his master’s enemy; and if he overtakes Moriarty he won’t have a bit of scruple about sticking his spear through him.”
“And serve him jolly well right, sir.”
“No, no; that won’t do,” said Denham.
“Not at all,” I cried, recovering my balance a little.