“Oh! Run, Mass’ George, run!” yelled Pomp; and instead of running I stood paralysed for an instant at the scene before me.
We were pretty close to the river-bank, and forcing our way through a cane brake which looked just as if it must be the home of alligators, when a man suddenly stood in the boy’s path.
Quick as thought the brave little fellow sprang at him, seeing in him an enemy, and called to me to run, which of course I did not do, but, as soon as I recovered from my surprise, ran on to his help. As I did so the path seemed darkened behind me, I heard a quick rustling, my arms were seized, and the next moment I was thrown down and a knee was on my chest.
“Oh, Mass’ George, why didn’t you run?”
Poor Pomp’s voice rang out from close beside me in despairing tones, and I wrenched my head round, just catching a glimpse of him through the canes. Then I looked up in the stern faces of my captors, thinking that I had seen them before, though no doubt it was only a similarity of aspect that struck me, as I realised that we had fallen into the hands of the Indians once more.
They did not give us much time to think, but after taking away our knives twisted up some lithe canes and secured our wrists and arms behind us, two holding each of us upright, while another fastened our hands.
Then they drew back from us, and stood round looking at us as if we were two curiosities.
“Well, this is a nice game, Pomp,” I said at last.
“Yes, dis nice game, Mass’ George. Why you no run away?”
“How could I?”