“Oh!” cried Frank, dashing at the man and shaking him violently.
“All right. Moind me head, Masther Frank! I’m ready, sor.”
“Can you walk?”
“Can I walk? Hark at him,” said Tim, drowsily. “I’ll show ye all.”
“Here, we’ll try,” said Mr Braine. “Take these. Put the revolver in his breast. Can you carry a gun, man?”
“For sartain,” said Tim, stupidly.
“Then ready. Not a moment is to be lost,” whispered Mr Braine. “Lead the way, Frank, and if we by chance are separated, every one is to make for the tall clump of trees this side of the stockade.”
“And chirp like this,” said Frank, imitating a bird. “That will bring the boat.”
“Then forward. Not a word.”
They stepped out on to the veranda, and gazed down into the black darkness, with the lightning still quivering and flickering in the distance.