“Didn’t send us, sir,” said the boy, looking down.
“Not send you?” cried Uncle Dick, staring. “How is it you came, then?”
The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scooping up the dry sand with his toes, and turned to his companion, who gave me a peculiar look and stood frowning.
“Why don’t you speak out and tell the gentleman, Bill Cross?”
“I left it to you, boy. You’ve got a tongue in your head.”
“Yes; but you’re bigger and older than me. But I don’t mind telling. You see, Mr Nat, sir,” he said, suddenly turning to me, “I couldn’t stand it any longer. They was killing of me, and as soon as you was gone, sir, it seemed so much worse that I went and shook hands with Bill Cross, who was the only one who ever said a kind word to me, and I telled him what I was going to do.”
“Told him you were going to run away?” said my uncle.
“No, sir,” said the boy promptly. “I telled him I’d come to say good-bye, for as soon as it was too dark for them to see to save me I was going to—”
“Run away?” said my uncle sternly, for the boy had stopped short.
“No, sir,” he resumed; “I was going to jump overboard.”