“Iss. Ship come,” said Jackum, who had bounded up and inspected the vessel. “Jackum fess all aboy. Car-ee going fight him?”
“No, no,” cried the boy; “they must be friends,” and, utterly worn out now, he broke down and hid his face.
“Don’t do that, dear lad,” whispered Bostock. “Keep it up a bit longer, for I must leave you now. Jackum and I must go off in the whale-boat and pilot them inside. Can’t you keep it up just an hour more?” and the old sailor’s voice shook as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Carey, as his teeth grated together. “Go on.”
“Right, my lad. I don’t think there’s anything to fear, but take my gun, and if that old ruffian does rouse up and crawl to the saloon door—’tarn’t likely, or he’d ha’ been here before, but I says it, my lad, because it would be your dooty, and you must—shoot, sir; shoot him. He aren’t a human man, only a something in a man’s shape; a murderer, that’s what he is, and you must shoot him as if he was a wild beast. Now, Jackum, give him the gun, and come with me.”
The black obeyed with alacrity, and a few minutes later Carey heard the faint plash of oars, and sat there in the utter silence, watching the doctor’s pallid thin features, as he still slept deeply, and listening for the sounds from below which did not come.
It must have been close upon two hours before that silence was broken by the sound of voices, the grating of a boat against the steamer’s side, and the trampling of feet on deck.
“Jackum backum,” cried the black, as he dropped down, with his face shining with excitement.
“Ahoy there!” cried Bostock. “How goes it, my lad? Here we are. Boat’s crew well armed, and we’re going to have Old King Cole out before many more minutes are gone.”
“Take care,” cried Carey, excitedly. “Think of the danger. What are you going to do?”