“Look ye here,” said a gruff voice, “I don’t know nothing ’bout no other way, so you’ve got to show me or lead me. I’ll hold a strap in my teeth, and some one can lead me by that. What you’ve got to do, Master Fred, is to set Sir Godfrey well on my back, and I can carry him anywhere. Never mind about that brother o’ mine. Chuck him down in any corner, if he won’t walk. I aren’t going to carry him.”
Nat uttered a low grunt, and muttered something out of the darkness about kicking, as, after a vain protest, Sir Godfrey was helped on to Samson’s back, the sturdy fellow stooping down, and then rising up with a bit of a laugh.
“Dessay him I was named after was pretty strong; but he couldn’t ha’ carried you, sir, any better than that.”
“My brave-hearted fellow!” said Sir Godfrey, faintly; and he set his teeth hard to keep back a moan of pain.
“Now, then,” said Samson, “what sort of a way is it?”
“Just like that we came,” said Fred, quickly as he drew Nat’s arm over his shoulder.
“Then I don’t want no leading,” said Samson; “some one go first, and I can feel my way with my ears.”
“Go first, Scar,” whispered Fred. “Don’t speak; only tell him when you reach the stairs. Now, forward!”
“Forward it is, gen’lemen. March! Never mind about that Nat. Got him all right, Master Fred?”
There was a low chuckle by Fred’s ear that sounded like one of Samson’s, as he answered—“Yes. Go on.”