“Yes, it is—it is,” said the doctor quickly. “You must forgive me. Every man has his weak moments, and this was one of mine. I felt as if I had sacrificed the poor fellow to this desperate attempt to escape.”
“Yes, father,” cried Chris bitterly. “It was my idea, and you ought to have let me go with him.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Wilton.
“What are you laughing at?” cried Chris fiercely.
“You—your words came in with such a droll ring in them. But there, we ought not to be talking now, but getting up into our hiding-places—eh, doctor?”
“Yes,” was the sharp reply, “at once. You, Wilton, Bourne, and Ned. You, Chris, with me. Have you got the crowbar, my boy?”
“Yes, father.”
“You others have the tent-pitchers, and I the short pole. Take your places at once; lie right down among the bushes till you hear my whistle, and then up and send the big stones down with all your might.”
No more was said, for not one present had the heart to speak. To Chris it was just as if he had said “Good-bye” to the American, who had gone straight to his death.
“And he has gone thinking me queer and ungrateful,” the boy said to himself, “for not insisting upon going with him.”