He made to follow the dog, whose tail was now beating the air with frantic delight. But he had no sooner reached the edge of the plantation than there was a rustle among the leaves: the boy was leaving his hiding-place and trying to crawl away into the forest.
"Begorra!" quoth Barney, "'tis a living cratur', and a bhoy, black as the peat on me father's bog, and not knowing a word uv Irish, to be sure."
Pat was rubbing his nose on the boy's flank, wondering why he had taken to going on all fours. But the negro did not crawl far. Faint with weakness, moaning with pain, he sank to the ground. Pat gave one bark of sympathy and stood watching him. Meanwhile Jack had come up.
"A boy, did you say, Barney? What is he doing here?"
"Sure I would like to know that same, sorr, but niver a word uv his spache did I learn. Perhaps he has niver seen a white man, not to say an Irishman, before, and thinks 'tis a ghost."
"Nando, come here!" called Jack.
The paddler hurried up, followed quickly by Mr. Martindale.
"What's this? What's this? A boy! They're not all killed then."
"I think he's hurt, uncle, and scared. He tried to crawl away from us, but seemed too weak."
"Well, lift him up, Barney; we'll see."