“Oh, yes, sir; he’s a reg’lar little trump—the Jack, me and Dan call him, and old Black Mak the King. Those two chaps arn’t as fond of you as Christians would be, but they think a deal more of you than dogs would, and it seems to me they are a kind of people as never forgets, especially the little ’un. Anybody that has ill-used them they’d wait if it was for years till they got their chance to let them have it again, and as Dan says, they never seem as if they could do enough for one who has done them a good turn. Why, old Dan and me got so chopped about that night that we could only just crawl about after we had cooled down. Luckily in the ’citement we didn’t feel so bad, but after a day or two we could hardly move, and as to doing a bit of hunting or shooting, we were good for nothing. Why, we might have got thinking that we should starve out here in the woods, but here have we been living like fighting cocks.”
“Oh, don’t talk about eating!” said Mark peevishly. “I don’t see why not, Mr Mark, sir. Dan says a bit of eating helps to put life into you.”
“Ah!” said Mark, with a low deep sigh. He made an effort to turn round on the bed of leaves, that the blacks had made for him, but it was beyond his strength, and Dean, giving him a wistful look, tenderly placed him in the position he wished, Mark grasping his hand the while, and strengthening his grasp as Dean tried to draw his own hand away.
The next minute to his surprise Dean found that his cousin had sunk into a deep sleep, and many hours passed before the boy awoke, still holding his cousin’s hand.
That next morning was the turning point, for Mark answered a wistful look from his cousin with the words, “I couldn’t help it, Dean—no, no, no, Dean! Dean! Dean!—I say, I couldn’t help it after what had happened. There, that’s all dead and buried.”
Dean hesitated, but he saw his cousin’s eyes flash, and he held out his hands and drew him into a sitting position.
“Here, Dan!” cried Mark; and the little sailor sprang to him from where he was busy cooking.
“Hullo, Mr Mark, sir!” he cried. “You are a-getting on!”
Those words, uttered loudly, brought up Buck Denham from where he had been bathing one of the cuts he had received.
“Oh, I say, Mr Mark,” he said, “you mustn’t do that! You arn’t strong enough.”