“Don’t come out. I’ll row on,” he said.
He looked back towards the Santa Maria, now some two hundred yards astern. The crew were still hoisting and stowing the cargo; there was no sign of excitement, nothing to show that the boy had been missed.
Martin rowed on in silence for a few minutes until the bend in the river hid the vessel from sight. Then he said again:
“Don’t come out. Keep the basket over you. But tell me why you are on my boat, and what it is that you want.”
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
STOP, THIEF!
It was a strange scene—had anyone witnessed it. But Martin was careful to keep out of the course of passing wherries, and so far from the ships at anchor that the bottom of his boat was not visible from their decks. The rim of the basket rested on the boy’s neck, and his dusky face, with its large pleading eyes upturned towards Martin, looked as though it projected from the planking.
“Me run away,” said the boy in a strange, high-pitched sing-song. “No takee me back. No let catchee me. I pray sahib very much.”
“Where do you come from?” said Martin. “What are you?”