It was only working by touch, but Sam made good use of his muscles, forgetting all about his stiffness, and for quite a couple of minutes the panting and scuffling of the wrestling pair went on, till Sam found himself upon his back with the black sitting upon his chest and a pair of hands in close proximity to his throat.
But in spite of his being in the worse position Sam was not beaten. He had fast hold of his enemy with his hands, and had thrown up his legs so as to tighten them round those of his foe, and in this position both held on as if trying to recover breath.
Then all at once Sam felt the grip of one of the black’s hands loosen, and a horrible thought flashed through his brain—
It was his adversary’s right hand, and he was about to seek for his knife!
“Look here, you black hound,” panted Sam. “If you stab me you’ll be hung.”
“Sam!” came in a hoarse voice, and the grip slackened.
“Who are you?” panted Sam. “Why!—what I—’Tain’t you, is it, Master Frank?”
“Oh, you idiot! you fool!”
“But I don’t under— I say, Mr Frank, I took you for a nigger.”