“’Tarn’t on’y my shirt, sir; I’m ’most all tinder, and I had to back out or I should soon ha’ been cooked.”
“Keep back, my lads!” cried Murray now, and by degrees he managed to get his little party all together in what seemed to be an open space where all was smoke and smouldering ashes, where the men stood coughing, while the heat was terrific.
“Stand still, my lad; stand still!” cried Murray.
“Can’t, sir,” growled the dim figure addressed; “it smarts so.”
“Tut, tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated Murray. “Can you make out which way the sea lies, May?”
“No, sir; I’ve been a-trying to.”
“We can’t stay here, my lads, and we must make for the shore. It would be madness to go on now.”
“That’s a true word, sir,” growled Tom May.
“I want to know where our chaps are, but I can’t hear nothing but the fire going it. Seems to me as if we’ve set all Africa afire, and it’s going on a mile a minute.”
“Who knows where the slave barrack lies?” cried Murray. “It seems horrible, but we must make sure that the fire has caught there.”