When the haversack of canvas had been emptied, the cook said, as he examined the wound on Jenkins’ head:
“I’se gwine ter fix yer up a little, Marse Jenkins, an’ den we’d better light out ob dis yere place, kase dere’s no tellin’ when dat crowd’s cumin’ back ter see wha’ made de sparks fly.”
The mate would have objected to Andy’s spending any time on what he considered a trifling matter; but the cook did not wait for remonstrances. Using the water in the canteen, regardless of whether his companions were thirsty, he first bathed the wound, and then bandaged it properly with strips torn from Gil’s shirt, after which he said, with an air of pride:
“I ’lows you’se gwine ter git ober dat little scratch widout much trouble, an’ ef dere’s no objection, we oughter keep on till we light on a better place dan dis yere bunch ob trees.”
After the generalship he had shown, there was no reason why the cook should not take command of the party, and he assumed the leadership by setting out at a rapid pace toward the coast, the others following close behind him.
Not until they were within sight of the sea at a point two or three miles from where the boys and the mate were made prisoners did he halt, and then it was to say:
“I’se gwine ter skurmish roun’ fur ter see whar dem debbils am hidin’.”
“Why shouldn’t we go with you?” the mate asked.
“Kase dere’s no tellin’ how de charm’s gwine ter work fur all han’s, an’ de res’ ob de crowd had better stay hyar till de ole man gits back.”
“The boys can take care of themselves for a while, and I’ll keep you company,” Jenkins said, decidedly. “We can’t afford to run the chance of an accident just now.”