“Not from outside,” grumbled Samson; “but how about them inside? They’ll come down and spit us like black cock on a big skewer.”
“What are you muttering about?” whispered Fred, as his companion went forward and knelt down.
“I was only saying, don’t blame me if they come down on us with swords that hasn’t been used to dig potatoes, Master Fred.”
“Let me come by you, and I’ll stand on guard while you strike a light.”
“No, sir; I shan’t,” said Samson, gruffly.
“What’s that?”
“You heared, sir.”
“Yes, I did hear,” whispered Fred, angrily; “and please remember, sir, that I am your officer.”
“Can’t remember that now, Master Fred, only that you’re to be took care of. I had strict orders to be always ready to shove my big body in front of you when anybody was going to” (nick, nick) “cut at you” (nick, nick, nick)—“Look at that!—with a sword.”
“Who gave you those orders?” said Fred, sharply.