“Never mind me, Master Nic,” he shouted. “Zwim for it—the boat. Never mind me.”
Then his voice was smothered, and there was the sound of a heavy fall, but the struggle went on.
“Hold on!” came the voice of the overseer, giving his orders; and then that of the settler:
“Give in, you scoundrels!” he raged out. Then fiercely, “Hold their heads under water, boys, if they don’t give in.”
“All done now, sah,” panted Samson, with his lips close to Nic’s head, for he was across his prisoner’s chest, and a couple of the blacks were holding his legs.
“Yes, we must give up, Master Nic,” cried Pete. “I’ve got five loads o’ black stuff sitting on me.”
“Have you your whip with you, Saunders?” cried the settler.
“No, sir; I wish I had. But it is hanging by the door, and we can give them a better taste by daylight.”
“You use it on him,” roared Pete fiercely, “and I’ll kill you.”
“Silence, you scoundrel!” cried the settler, “or I’ll have you gagged as well as ironed. I warned you both of what would happen if you tried to escape.”