“Blows of clubs?” cried the captain, sheltering the light with his hand, as he looked toward his brother.
“Spears,” said Uncle Jack, laconically; and the next moment the sound of his powder-flask was heard upon the muzzle of the gun, followed by the ramming down of a wad.
But the boys’ eyes were not directed toward their uncle, whose figure could be plainly seen as he loaded again, for they were fixed upon the body of a black lying face downward on the kitchen floor, with Shanter, hideously painted, squatting beside it, showing his white teeth, and evidently supremely proud of his deed of arms.
Chapter Twenty Two.
“They’re on the roof.”
Coming quickly into the kitchen with the candle, the captain held it down over the prostrate black, turned him partly over, and let him fall back as he rapidly blew it out.
“Dead,” he said, hoarsely.
“Yohi. Gone bong,” said Shanter, quietly. “Come along mumkull Marmi and plenty white Marys. When piggi jump up, baal find dat black fellow.”