“We must trust our hosts, Jem,” replied Don. “They have behaved very well to us so far.”
There was another hail from the party ashore, and still Jem hesitated.
“I don’t know but what we might walk straight away, Mas’ Don,” he said, glancing down at the garb he wore. “If any of our fellows saw us at a distance they’d say we was savages, and take no notice.”
“Not of our white faces, Jem? Come, don’t be obstinate; I’m going on.”
“Oh, well, sir, if you go on, o’ course I must follow, and look arter you; but I don’t like it. The place looks treacherous. Ugh! Wurra! Wurra! Wurra!”
That repeated word represents most nearly the shudder given by Jem Wimble as he followed Don into the cave, the chief pointing for them to go farther in, and then dropping rapidly down from point to point till he was at the bottom, Jem peering over the edge of the shelf, and watching him till he had disappeared.
“Arn’t gone to tell them where we are, have he, Mas’ Don?”
“No, Jem. How suspicious you are!”
“Ah, so’ll you be when you get as old as I am,” said Jem, creeping back to where Don was standing, looking inward. “Well, what sort of a place is it, Mas’ Don?”
“I can’t see in far, but the cavern seems to go right in, like a long crooked passage.”