“See how honest he was about the ‘tickpence,’” said Rifle.
“I don’t think he was the sort of fellow to steal,” whispered Tim to Hester.
“I believe that you have hit the right nail on the head, aunt,” said the captain; and the boys looked across at one another, thought of the grub feast, and felt hurt that the black, whose many childish ways had won a kind of liking for him, should be suspected of theft.
“Well,” said the captain; “it will act as a warning. Bought wit is better than taught wit. No more black fellows anywhere near our camp. It is my own fault. I was warned about them. They have none of the instincts of a civilised man, and will kill or steal, or be guilty of any crime. So understand here, boys, don’t make friends with any more.”
“Coo-ee!”
The cry was far away, but it came clearly enough through the night air. Then again, “Coo-ee!”
“The blacks,” cried the captain. “Quick! They see the fire, and think it’s the camp of friends. Away from it every one. Guns.”
There was a quick movement. The ladies were got under shelter, and the men and boys took refuge in the shadow cast by the bushes, all feeling that a white in the full light of the fire would be an easy mark for a spear.
The captain gave his orders briefly that there was to be no firing unless the blacks attacked them, and then they waited, Rifle suffering all the time as he crouched down in the scrub from an intense desire to answer each “coo-ee” as it came nearer and nearer, and now evidently from the track they had made in their journey that day.
“It is not a large party,” whispered the captain to Artemus, who was close to him.