Chapter Forty One.
Hunted.
“Think he’s gone now, Mr Murray, sir?” said Tom May in a whisper.
“I’m afraid to hope for it,” replied Murray.
“So’m I, sir,” said the man; “but what a toucher! Just think of his bungling off that old musket and scaring the lot! He may think himself lucky that he didn’t shoot some of ’em.”
“Or hisself,” growled Titely. “That makes me sure it was the one I was handling, for it had been strained a bit so as the hammer was a bit loose. But hadn’t we better get on somewhere else for a bit, sir, ’fore he comes back?”
“I don’t think I would, Frank,” whispered Roberts sadly. “I’m so weak and helpless I don’t know what to do, and we’re just as likely to blunder against the enemy as they are to come upon us. If I could only have some water I wouldn’t care.”
“Just wait for a half-hour or so, sir, and give the beggars a chance to get a bit further away, and then we’ll have a look round and see if we can’t find water, and if we don’t come upon any at once we’ll see what we can do in the way of digging some up with the cutlasses.”
“Oh, I’ll wait,” said Roberts, with a piteous sigh, “but don’t wait too long, or I shall die of thirst.”