“Bother your wait a bit, Tom! I’m sick of hearing it,” cried the lad angrily. “Why, look here, they’re making straight for the cottage after all.”
“Well, didn’t you expect they would, sir?” cried the big sailor.
“No; what’s the good of that?”
“What I said, sir. Maybe the gentleman has come back again.”
“No such good fortune, Tom. Well, we shall soon know;” and the lad sat back in the cutter’s stern sheets steering and watching the planter’s boat, to which he kept close up, while the black crew threaded their way in and out amongst the canes, till they pulled up by the bamboo landing-stage.
“Massa Allen in dere, sah,” whispered the black, pointing at the doorway of the cottage, and smiling with satisfaction as if delighted at the skill with which he had played the part of pilot.
Murray sprang on to the creaking bamboo stage, and, ready to believe that the sick man might have returned, he signed to May to follow him, hurried into the place, thrust open the study door and had only to glance in to satisfy himself that the little room was still vacant.
“Let’s look in the other room, Tom,” said the middy sadly, “but it’s of no use; our prisoner has not come back.”
A hurried glance was given to each portion of the cottage, and then Murray led the way back to the landing-stage, where the black coxswain sat grinning a welcome.
“He’s not there, my lad,” cried Murray, shaking his head. “Master Allen has gone.”