Little did they think he was just above their heads, watching their writing.
Watta’s white blood, which had boiled and seethed all day and in the early evening, had spent its fury, and the gentler nature of the man had assumed control.
“Oh, they’ve fotched you, Watta,” said Harris, really more alarmed for him than for himself.
“Mann,” said Watta in a low tone, “what do you think of this?”
“I don’t know what to think of it.”
“Do you think they will kill any of us?”
“Yes I do, just so.”
“Do you think they will kill me?”
“I do Watta; that I do: and all you have got to do is to pray God to save your soul.”