“I hope not,” whispered Stan; “but they’re chopping again below. Hark! you can hear them plainly.”
“Yes, it sounds bad, my boy; but help must come soon. I say, Stan.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“I thought you were done for, and I hardly know now how you managed to escape.”
“It was close, uncle; but I’m afraid I must have crushed the man’s fingers horribly.”
“Poor fellow!” said Uncle Jeff dryly.
“Here, Jeff,” said his brother hoarsely; “do you smell that?”
“Oh yes, I can smell it; I did a minute ago. Look! that’s smoke rising past the window.”
“Yes, I thought it was,” said Stan huskily; “but I was in hopes that it was from our firing.”
“No,” said Uncle Jeff; “it’s from their firing, my lad; and with such an ally we shall be done for.—Oliver, old fellow, we must beat a retreat.”