“And,” said Pete thoughtfully, “there’s zomething else we haven’t took count of.”
“What’s that?” said Nic eagerly.
“The dogs, my lad; the dogs!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Fight with Morpheus.
Nic had no faith in his companion’s notions about the boat lying sunk in the creek or river; but as the time wore on he could suggest no better idea.
Still, he did find out where the guns were kept one day when, in company with a man of Humpy Dee’s party, he was ordered up to help in stowing some bales of tobacco-leaf in a kind of store at the back of the low wooden building.
The work was pretty hard, but Nic hardly felt it, for in going to and fro he had to pass an open door which led into the place used by the settler and Saunders for their dining and sitting room. It was a very rough spot, and the furniture was all home-made—that is to say, it was manufactured by the blacks. But Nic hardly heeded its contents after seeing a series of hooks driven into the wall, and upon each pair a musket, with powder-flask and bullet-pouch attached.