“This, then, is my owner,” thought Nic, scanning the settler narrowly as he stood apart talking in a quick, decisive manner to the overseer, who seemed to treat him with great respect, while the blacks stood apart waiting for their orders.
These were not long in coming, for the man turned sharply upon them.
“Clear the boat,” he said; and the blacks ran to the bows, a couple of them holding the vessel steady while the prisoners stepped clanking out, to stand in a row on the bank, with their new master scanning them sharply.
“Here, Saunders,” he said, “why is that boy not in irons?”
“That is the sick one, sir. Weak as a rat.”
“Oh!—Here, what’s the matter with you, boy?” cried the settler. “No disease, have you?”
“No, sir,” said Nic, speaking out firmly, for his time seemed to have come. “I was beaten about the head, and received a wound from a cutlass on the night these men were seized during an outrage, and—”
“That will do. I don’t want a sermon,” said the settler brutally.
“Nor I to preach one, sir; but I was seized with these men by mistake.”
“Ah, yes,” said the settler, frowning; “some bad mistakes of this sort are made. That will do.”