“Not much. Oh, Ned, and I thought we had got away from them.”
“Yes, but they must have been on the look-out, sir.”
The blacks were standing round them, spear in hand, ready to strike if an attempt was made to escape, and Jack said so.
“Oh yes, sir, they’d let go at us if we tried to run, but it’s of no use to do that, for they’d bring us down at once. There, we may as well look it straight in the face and make the best of it.”
“We can’t, Ned,” said Jack dismally; “there is no best to it. I only wish I knew what they were going to do with us. Only fancy, after us taking all that trouble to get away!”
The bewailings were brought to an end by a stalwart black clapping him on the shoulder and saying something as he pointed over the ridge.
“Ugh! you ugly, mop-headed Day and Martin dummy,” cried Ned. “If I hadn’t a better language than that I’d hold my tongue. No use to kick, Mr Jack; suppose we must go on.”
Jack was already stepping forward, urged by another powerfully-built fellow, who showed his teeth and pricked him forward with the point of the spear he carried.
It was a blunt, clumsy weapon, the point being merely the wood of which it was formed, hardened by thrusting in the fire, but the hand which held it was powerful, and the prod received severe, though the skin was not pierced. Jack uttered no cry, neither did he shrink, but turned round so fiercely upon the black that the fellow started back.
“Well done, Mr Jack, sir,” cried Ned excitedly; “that did me good. I like that, sir. Let ’em see that you’re Briton to the backbone, and though they’ve tied me up again with these bits of cane, Britons never shall be slaves. Here, ugly: come and stand in front and I’ll kick you.”