“It’s all right,” whispered Briscoe five minutes later. “They’re all whispering and plotting together yonder. Now for it. You tackle the skipper, and I’ll tell your brother. Be as quiet as you can.”
Brace thought that the duty of warning his brother should be his, but he said nothing, and, creeping to the captain’s side, he bent over in the dark, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
In an instant two powerful hands had him by the throat, and he had hard work not to struggle.
“Who is it?” said the captain hoarsely.
“I—Brace Leigh,” said the young man, in a hoarse whisper.
“You shouldn’t rouse me like that, my lad. What is it—Indians?”
Brace told him, and the captain lay back, perfectly till, gazing up at the smoke.
“Bless ’em!” he said softly. “That’s trouble to-morrow morning then—not to-night. Well, have you told Dellow and Lynton?”
“No; but Mr Briscoe is telling my brother.”
“Mr Briscoe, eh? Think he’s siding with the men?”