“No.”
“Lose um knife.”
“Well?”
“Pomp got um.”
“You have? Where?”
“Down dah,” he said, making a sign with one foot toward the loose moss and leaves he had picked.
“Why, Pomp,” I whispered, joyfully, “how did you manage that?”
“Ciss! Coming.”
Two of the Indians had risen again from the fire, and once more approached, feeling the knots, and to my despair, binding us more securely with a couple of fresh ropes of hide.
Then I saw their dark figures go half way to the fire, return and pass near us, and out along the banks of the river toward the settlement.