“That’s true, Tom,” said the middy sadly.
“’Sides, sir, how do we know but what Mr Allen may have come back while we’ve been gone?”
“Tom!” cried Murray excitedly, and after the fashion of the proverbial drowning man, he snatched at the straw the sailor held out to him. Turning to the black, who was squatting at his feet, he cried, “Take us to Mr Allen.”
The slave nodded and grinned as he settled himself down, chattering the while to his crew, who raised their oars ready to dip them in the placid water, when a thought seemed to strike him and he tucked the oar he had seized under one knee and turned to the middy, saying sharply—
“You go kill Massa Allen?”
“Kill him? No!” cried Murray, in surprise.
The man nodded and gave the black crew an order, and their oars dipped at once, while the little English party in the cutter followed the lead, and to Murray’s surprise he found himself taken through an entirely fresh canal-like lead of water of whose existence he had not the slightest idea.
“I thought so, sir,” said Tom May, in a low tone of voice. “This chap knows his way about, and it’s worth a Jew’s eye to have found him and made friends. You’ll see that he’ll show us where to go. Shouldn’t wonder if he takes us straight to that Mr Allen.”
“If he only would, Tom!” replied the midshipman, speaking as if a great load was being taken off his mind.
“Oh, you wait a bit, sir.”