“Oh, Master George, do wake up, my lad, and come! Be quick, pray!”
Chapter Forty Three.
Quite dark. My head confused. The alligator’s foot on my chest. No; it was the butt-end of a gun pushing me.
“Here! Don’t! What’s the matter?”
“I thought I should never get you to wake, sir. Come along. The Indians are here.”
I sprang out of the tent, with it gradually dawning upon me that I had been sleeping heavily from early afternoon right into the darkness of night, and dreaming away in a heavily confused fashion of the various objects that had just filled my eyes and ears.
“You said the Indians were here?” I said, excitedly.
“Yes, my lad. Look!”