“Then why not make a strong effort, and get them down to Malacca?”
“For the simple reason that no efforts we could make would be half strong enough. The only way would be to try to escape.”
“Well, why not try that?”
“Because there is such a thing as failure, my dear fellow, and that would mean placing us all in a ten times worse position than we are in now.”
Murray frowned and looked intensely miserable.
“Come,” said Mr Braine; “don’t let us conjure up what may be imaginary troubles. Call those boys, and be off before the sun gets more power. I tell you that you may go away perfectly contented, for this man moves very slowly, and we shall have ample warning of any danger before it comes.”
Murray sighed, and it was in rather a half-hearted manner that he handed his guns and cases to Hamet, who bore them off, and directly after they heard him talking to some one, whose voice told at once, from its peculiar, highly-pitched intonation, that it was Tim Driscol, who the next minute appeared at the door.
“Beg pardon, sor,” he said, “but masther says if it’s at all convaynient would you—”
“What’s the matter?” cried Murray, eagerly, catching the man by the arm.
“Oh, jist nawthing as ye may say, sor. A little out of ordher for want of fresh air, and the masther says if ye wouldn’t mind takking me with ye to-day, I might be a bit useful.”