“What a lad you are!” he cried. “It’s all right; he’s waiting for us. It’s some, sailor chap from Dartmouth, whose ship’s put in at Kingston or Belize. Cheer up, mate!”
But it was all a mockery; and when they approached the jungle at last, hoeing more slowly for, much as they longed to go up at once, they knew that any unusual movement on their part, might be interpreted by watchful eyes into an attempt at escape, and bring down upon them a shot. Bart’s voice trembled and sounded hoarsely as he said playfully—
“Now, Abel, my lad, I’m going to talk to that there poll parrot.”
“Hush!” whispered Abel, agitatedly. “Keep on quietly with your work till we get close, and then call softly.”
“Oh, it’s all straight, lad,” whispered back Bart, chopping away and breaking clods, as his fetters clanked more loudly than ever. “Now, then, Polly! Pretty Polly, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, Bart. Abel, dear brother, at last, at last!” came from the jungle.
“Mary—Polly, my girl!” cried Abel, hoarsely, as he threw down his hoe; and he was running toward the jungle, where a crashing sound was heard, when Bart flung his strong arms across his chest and dashed him to the ground.
“Are you mad!” he cried. “Mary, for God’s sake keep back!”
The warning was needed, for from across the plantation the overseer and a couple of soldiers came running, every movement on the part of the prisoners being watched.
“Sham ill, lad; sham ill,” whispered Bart, as a piteous sigh came from the depths of the jungle.