“It was someone who got ashore from a boat,” he said, “and managed to crawl up there. It’s the only place where anyone could get up.”
“Being nigh that creek, lad, where the crocodiles is,” said Bart. “Ay, you’re right. Who could it be?”
“One of our old mates.”
“Nay; no old mate would take all that trouble for us, lad. It’s someone Mary’s sent to bring us a letter and a bit of news.”
It was at night in the prison lines that Bart said this, and then he listened wonderingly in the dark, for he heard something like a sob from close to his elbow.
“Abel, matey!” he whispered.
“Don’t talk to me, old lad,” came back hoarsely after a time. And then, after a long silence, “Yes, you’re right. Poor lass—poor lass!”
“Say that again, Abel; say that again,” whispered Bart, excitedly.
“Poor lass! I’ve been too hard on her. She didn’t get us took.”
“Thank God!”