To me it sounded blood-curdling, and a curious sensation ran through me, as if the blood was chilling in my veins. But on thinking of it afterwards, I did not believe that it curdled, and on talking the matter over just before sitting down to write this narrative of my boyish adventures, my doctor said it was all nonsense; that the sensation was produced by the nerves, and that if a body’s blood curdled there would be an end of him at once.
Of course the doctor was right, for the effect of that cry was to make me drop down in the boat again, whisper to Pomp to pull, and row with all my might.
Then another yell came from our right, and was answered from the forest, the Indian who shouted evidently being not very far away.
“Hear dat, Mass’ George?” said Pomp.
“Yes; pull hard. It is the Indians.”
“Well, who car’ for old Injum? Dey can’t cotch us now.”
“Don’t be too sure,” I whispered. “There may be some of them waiting to shoot at us with their bows and arrows.”
Pomp turned his head quickly over his right shoulder to look at the low bushes and reedy plants by the river-bank, and in doing so thrust his oar too deeply down, with the result that he received a blow in the chest, his legs rose up in the air, and his head went down between my legs.
He lay on his back for a moment staring wildly up at me over his forehead, his eyes rolling and his mouth wide.
“Why Mass’ George do dat?” he cried.