“Yes, and gave me orders to shoot all the niggers who attacked you.”
“Hooray! Then come on.”
The two lads hurried off together through the darkness, leaving the hacienda and its defenders behind as they began to retrace their steps along the rough track leading to the corduroy road.
“Here, we mustn’t talk,” whispered Poole. “There’s pretty nearly sure to be a post of the enemy somewhere in front. We can’t have such luck as to get down there to the river without something in our way. I’ll go on first.”
“That you don’t,” said Fitz. “If any one goes first I will.”
“Now, no nonsense!” cried Poole angrily. “I’m boss of this job, and if you don’t do as I tell you I’ll leave you behind.”
“I’ve got your father’s orders to come and take care of you,” retorted Fitz; “and if you come any of your bounce and cheek now there’ll be a row, and it will end in my punching your head.”
“Poof! Cock-a-doodle-do!” whispered Poole. “There: come on! Let’s walk side by side. I’ll settle all that with you when the work is done. I say, keep your eyes skinned, and both ears wide open. I’ll look to the right, you look to the left. We’ll get on that wooden road and follow it down to the wharf.”
“Pretty wharf it is! I say, I hope those poor fellows haven’t been murdered.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that. They’ve got the boat, and let’s hope they’re safe. But it’s been hard lines for them, waiting there all this time, with nothing to do but nibble their biscuits and kill flies.—Pst!”