Chapter Seventeen.
They were in total darkness, but Bostock took out his match-box and struck a light to apply to the lamp, which he coolly proceeded to regulate, and then turned to wait for the doctor to speak.
Doctor Kingsmead was standing with the veins in his forehead swollen, his teeth set, and his hands clenched.
“The dog—the brutal ruffian!” he said, as if talking to himself. “So helpless. Quite at his mercy. Seemed like a coward and a cur.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Carey, shortly. “We were taken by surprise, and they’re seven to one, and all armed.”
The doctor turned to him sharply.
“Seven to one?” he said.
“Yes, I counted them; twenty black fellows and him.”
“And threes into twenty-one goes seven times,” growled Bostock.
“Yes, yes, seven to one,” said the doctor, drawing a deep breath, “and the ruffian has us at his mercy, for those black fellows would rush at us at a word, like the black pack he calls them. It’s plain enough they have been within sight in a canoe, and reported to him what they saw. The scoundrel has, no doubt, played the part of wrecker for years and taken possession of every unfortunate vessel that has come ashore, plundered and burnt it.”