“There, I told you so, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem. “I know that man,” said Don firmly. “I only know the others by their making us prisoners out in the bush.”
“Where did you know him?” said the officer—“Norfolk Island?”
“No, sir; at Bristol. He worked as labourer in my uncle’s yard.”
“That’s right enough,” said Mike; “and him and Jem Wimble was pressed, and went to sea.”
“Ay, ay!” said the officer quickly.
“And they deserted, and took to the bush.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the officer. “From the sloop of war. The captain asked us to keep an eye open for two lads who had deserted.”
“Hor—hor—hor!” laughed Mike maliciously; “and now you’ve got ’em; Mr Gentleman Don and Master Jemmy Wimble.”
“If your hands warn’t tied,” cried Jem fiercely, “I’d punch your ugly head!”
“Is this true, young man?” said the officer sternly. “Did you desert from His Majesty’s sloop?”