“Better sit still and rest, and chance the flock coming near. If you follow them they’ll hear you, and lead you farther and farther away.”
“Yes, I know that, sir, but I’m so hungry, and I’m afraid to begin chewing leaves for fear of poison. Hullo! Don’t move, sir. Hear that? You’re right, this is the best way and the easiest.”
“What shall we do, Ned, shoot, or try to get at them with the spears?”
“Let’s see ’em first, sir,” said Ned wisely, “and wait our chance, and then do both.”
The objects which had excited their attention by sundry familiar sounding grunts were not long in showing themselves in the shape of a little herd of pigs, three old ones and about a dozen half-grown; and as they came down a slope to their left, and began rooting about under the trees a couple of hundred yards away, Ned softly smacked his lips, looked at Jack, took out his brass matchbox, and said the expressive word “crackling.”
The formation of the mountain side was mostly that of shallow stony gullies opening one into the other, but all with the general tendency up and down, and it was on the slope of one of these that the fugitives were resting, while the herd had entered it from its highest part.
Ned’s fingers played tremblingly about the bow he held. Then he felt his arm, and a look of joy and pride came into his eyes.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I say, sir, wasn’t it a grand idea to leave some pigs here to breed? You stop quiet and wait your chance.”
“Why? What are you going to do?” whispered Jack.
“Creep round by the back of this tree, sir, and as they feed down I’ll go up the side, and by and by you’ll see me dodging softly along toward you over yonder beyond them. Then we shall have ’em between us, and if they take fright they must either go up or down, and pass one of us. It’s our chance, and we must not let it go. Look here, sir, you choose one of the little ones, and wait till you think you can hit him. Then hold up your hand and we’ll fire together. Then run at ’em with your spear. We must get one or else starve.”