“But why doesn’t the doctor do something?”
“Aren’t made up his mind yet what to do, my lad, seemingly. He’s hatching. That’s what I think he’s a-doing of. I s’pose we’d better wait.”
“I can’t wait,” whispered Carey, “I feel in such a rage, I must do something.”
“Take the prog to them black beasts then, sir, now. They aren’t much better than annymiles.”
“Look sharp, you two, and come back to the cabin,” came in a fierce, hoarse voice from the cabin stairs, proving that they were watched.
“Come on, and get the dirty job done, Master Carey,” whispered Bostock. “I shall ’ave to kill somebody over this before I’ve done.”
Carey said nothing, but walked forward with his load, hearing the savages, who were chattering loudly, suddenly cease as if listening, and the next moment Black Jack came bounding to their side, looking eagerly from one to the other.
“Why can’t you walk?” growled Bostock. “Can’t you get over the deck, and not come hopping like a hingy-rubber ball, or one of your kangaroos?”
“Kangaroo? Wallaby?” said the black. “Over there. Lots.”
“Go and join ’em then, you sable son of a three-legged pitch-pot.”