“If they do, my man, I shall be sorry,” said my father, gravely, “for they may fall into worse hands than ours. We have no key to those shackles; could you turn them with a file?”
“Little screwdriver may do it, sir?” said Morgan, thoughtfully.
“Fetch it from the tool-chest,” said my father, shortly; and Morgan went off grumbling something about waste of money.
He was back in a short time, during which the black still slept, and the boy crouched by him watching us eagerly.
“Now,” said my father, “see if you can open those ankle-rings. No, no; I mean the man’s.”
“But s’pose he’s only shamming, sir, and jumps up, half kills me, and runs?”
“I’ll forgive him if he does,” said my father, dryly, “for you are getting to be a very dictatorial, meddling, insolent servant, Morgan.”
“Well!” exclaimed Morgan. “Hear that, Master George, and after me following faithful all the way to these here wild shores. Ah, master, I didn’t think you’d ha’ said— Hi! Keep back, you young warmint!”
For at the first movement of Morgan toward the sleeping black’s feet, the boy sprang up and showed his teeth like a dog.
“Stop! Keep back,” said my father, and Morgan drew away, muttering something about a savage young tom wolf.