Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Sudden Attack.
“Mr Mark, sir!” This in Dunn Brown’s most dreary tones, and before the boy could answer there came, in almost a piteous wail, “Mr Dean, sir!”
“Hillo!” cried Mark, from where he and his cousin were seated cross-legged like tailors, in the shade of one of the walls, repairing damages, as they called it—that is to say, they were very untidily sewing, up thorn-made tears in the jackets laid across their knees.
It was a delightfully still afternoon, with the air limpid and clear, while the sun threw down the shadows of wall and tree of a dense velvety black. The doctor and Sir James were away somewhere, exploring, alone; Mak and the pigmy had picked out a good sunshiny spot where they could sleep, while the rest of the party were not far away and busy clearing out an excavation that they had begun the previous day.
All was so still that Dunn Brown’s curiously intoned high-pitched calls sounded peculiarly shrill, and almost startled Dean in his clumsy manipulation of his needle, making him prick his hand.
“Oh, there you are, gentlemen; I couldn’t find you, nor anybody else.”
“Well, what’s the matter?” said Mark.