Murray made a snatch at the sailor’s cutlass, took a firm grip of the hilt, and then creeping cautiously over two of the recumbent sailors, made for the opening, now quite satisfied that May’s eyes even now had been sharper than his own, and that one of the enemy was stealing up by means of some bamboo pole or ladder, to guide his companions into the bravely defended room.
Murray rose slowly, threw back the heavy sharp blade till the hilt rested against his left ear, and gathering into the effort all his force he was about to deliver his cut upon the unguarded enemy’s head, when there was a quick whisper:
“Massa Murray no hit. Take hold ’fore Caesar tumble down.”
The middy loosened his hold of the cutlass just in time, and catching hold of the black’s hand with both his own, dragged him over the barricade right into the room.
“Hullo, darkie,” whispered Tom May; “it is you, is it?”
“Yes, Massa Big Tom,” replied the black feebly, and as if speaking in weakness and in pain.
“Thought you’d come back to your friends again. Didn’t bring in any more powder, did you?”
“No, Massa Tom,” replied the poor fellow faintly. “Caesar nearly get kill. T’ink nebber see poor Massa Allen again. Couldn’t find um.”
“Did you, blackie? Well, we all began to think something of that kind.”
“Massa Murray Frank and all Bri’sh sailor come ’long o’ Caesar. T’ink take um where Massa Allen must be.”