Bruised and sore, dropping blood from his untended wound, Dennis hastened with Amos to the side, and was in the act of following the maroons into the boat when he suddenly remembered the two sick men in the forecastle.
"I'll be with you anon," he cried, hurrying across the waist.
"What a murrain!" muttered Amos, scrambling back and running after him. "Shall we drown for a brace of savages! Wilful! Wilful!"
He reached the forecastle in time to see Dennis hauling from his bunk the fat negro, who lay there huddled and shivering with terror.
"Make the fat fool understand!" cried Dennis, shoving the cook into Amos's arms. Then he hurried to the further end, where the maroons lay in a stupor of fright. Having no words to acquaint them with their peril, he sought to move them by signs; but the men gazed at him in fear, regarding him doubtless as a new oppressor.
"Amos, leave that lump of jelly and come hither," he shouted. The sailor bawled a word or two in Spanish, and sped the negro towards the side with a kick. Then he made haste to join Dennis.
"The wretches are helpless," said the boy. "We must carry them—fair and softly, Amos."
"Ay, sir, an you will; but our case is parlous; I fear me our leisure will not serve."
"No delay, then. Hoist this fellow upon my back; do you bring the other. We cannot suffer the knaves to drown."
They staggered forth with their burdens, Dennis foremost. As he stumbled towards the side he caught sight of a man crawling slowly from the direction of the cabin. The man called to him feebly, but Dennis did not pause until he had reached the gangway by the netting, where he laid the maroon down.