Chapter Eleven.
Our first task on getting out of the main river and up our stream to the landing-place where the boat was made fast, was to get the boy ashore, and it proved to be no light task; coaxing and threats were received in the same spirit—for of course he could not comprehend a word. All he seemed to realise was that he was in the hands of his enemies; and that if he could get a chance, he ought to bite those hands.
“You’ll have to be careful, Morgan,” I said, as our man stooped down to unfasten the rope which held the boy to the thwart.
“Careful? What for, Master George? Think I should break him?”
“No; he bites.”
“Oh, he won’t bite me,” said Morgan, confidently. “Like to catch him at it.”
He had his wish, for the boy swung himself round and set his teeth hard in Morgan’s leg.
“Oh! Well, he is hungry, and no mistake,” said Morgan, freeing himself by giving the boy’s head a sharp thrust.
“Has he bitten you?” said my father.