The next moment he was in again, crawling like a huge black slug head first down the stairs, till they saw only the soles of his feet, and then they disappeared, the other looking on grinning as he squatted down.
“It’s not snoring, Bob,” whispered Carey. “There is something terrible below. I think the doctor is dead, after wounding Mallam badly.”
“Oh, don’t say that, my lad; but hullo! what’s wrong with your chesty? You keep putting your hand there.”
“I don’t think it’s much,” said the boy. “Never mind now. It hurts badly now and then. Mallam shot at me.”
Bang!
There was a sharp report, a rush, and quite in a little cloud of smoke Jackum bounded out on the deck, whipped his club out from where it was stuck in his girdle behind, and made several vicious blows at nothing in the direction of the cabin stairs, his teeth bared, and a savage look of rage in his eyes.
Then, clapping his left hand to his ear, which was bleeding, he whispered:
“Big Dan shoot.”
He turned to his fellow, who examined the wounded ear, the lobe of which was split. Then the injury was pinched together for a few moments, a little grass bag was produced from somewhere, and a pinch of clay-dust applied to the wound.
This done, Jackum grinned again.