“Not the slightest,” replied Murray, as the last of the crew reached the fringing bamboos and plunged in, to disappear. “But don’t let that one go.”
“No, sir; he’s right enough. Better let him know that we’re not going to kill him, though.”
“Be quiet, sir!” cried Murray, stepping alongside to where May had his foot upon the shivering slave’s chest. “No one is going to hurt you.”
“Oh, massa! Oh, massa! Poor niggah, sah!” sobbed the poor fellow, and he placed his hands together as if in prayer.
“Hold your tongue! Be quiet!” cried Murray. “Now then, speak out. Where’s your master?”
“Oh, massa! You massa now!” sobbed the poor wretch, shivering violently.
“Be quiet, sir!” cried Murray. “Don’t be afraid to speak. Now then, tell me. Where is your master?” It was some minutes before the poor fellow could grasp the fact that he was not going to be killed outright, and in the meantime his companions had begun to show themselves, a face here and a face there, around the edge of the long winding lake, horribly frightened to a man, but fascinated and held to the spot by their strong desire to see what became of their companion.
“See ’em, sir?” whispered Tom May.
“Oh yes, I see them; but I want to try and get some information out of this poor shivering wretch.”
“We might ketch the rest on ’em, sir,” said the big sailor, “by using this one as a bait. Shall we try, sir?”