“Oh!” ejaculated Cyril. “Come on then, quick.”
They stole out of their corner to the baggage pile, where Perry pointed to the portmanteau containing his kit, signing to Cyril to take one end and help him to bear it a dozen yards away to where a huge mass of rock had fallen from above.
“Here we are,” cried Perry, dragging out one of the suits that had been made expressly for the journey. “They’ll fit you, I know.”
“Fit!” cried Cyril excitedly; “of course they will. Once get myself decent, I shan’t so much mind what the colonel says—I mean, I can bear it better. I did feel such a poor miserable wretch when he was talking to me in the night. It all seemed so easy just to dress like one of the Indians; but as soon as I was in that long shirt thing, with my bare legs and feet, I felt as if I’d suddenly turned into a savage, and daren’t look any one in the face.”
“And I don’t wonder at it,” growled a deep voice. “Here, what game’s this, young gents?”
The boys looked up to see that John Manning was peering over the rock, and they were so startled for a few moments that neither spoke.
“Going off again, and you with him, Master Perry? Well, you don’t do that while I’m here.”
“Don’t be so stupid, John,” cried Perry, recovering himself. “Can’t you see what we’re doing?”
“Yes, that’s what I can see, making of yourselves a little kit apiece, ready to desert, both of you.”
“Rubbish!” cried Perry.—“That’s all, isn’t it, Cyril?”