“Oh, uncle!” panted Ned to himself; “how could you be so stupid.”
Then he threw himself down, for there was the quick movement of feet, the familiar creaking of the bamboo steps in front, that he had so often ascended and descended, and then his uncle’s voice said loudly:
“Nothing wrong. Water—water!” And as if to himself—“I don’t suppose they understand a word.”
But it was evident that they comprehended the last word, for the bamboo floor creaked, and Ned plainly heard the sound of some one drinking. Then came the words, “Thank you;” the floor and steps creaked again, and after all had been silent for what seemed to be half an hour, the boy rose to his feet again, conscious that Hamet was hard at work, for the scraps fell fast.
Then came a pause, the faint creaking of the floor as if Murray had turned round, a dull expiration of the breath as of some one breathing very hard; and as Ned stood grasping the pillar, he felt that the slight house was quivering slightly.
Ned’s heart beat now fast, and in imagination he saw his uncle hanging from Hamet’s hands and being drawn upward toward the sloping roof.
Another creak, a loud rustle, and he knew that he had climbed—half drawn—through the palm thatch, and the pair were about to descend.
“Quick, quick!” thought Ned, “before they hear you;” and longing to go to Murray’s help, he strained his head back and tried to pierce the thick darkness.
All at once there was an ominous crack, a violent rustling sound, and then a sharp jerk or check.
Murray had slipped, and was coming down fast, but he had saved himself, and from overhead now came a sharp whisper, “Quick!”