"I guess that goes for all of us," rumbled Divver's throaty bass.
Harding's footsteps could now be heard clambering up the bank. From below his companions shouted encouragement to him.
"Ef they be in thar, yew let me take fust crack at 'em, by chowder," admonished Rafter's voice from below.
"You'll all get a turn," came from Harding, in his lightest, most flippant tones.
"How can men be such ruffians?" wondered Jack to himself, as he heard. He knew now why he had instinctively mistrusted Harding from the first. Yet they had saved his life that very morning. Was Harding going to return evil for good, by betraying them to their merciless enemies? It looked so.
The former West Pointer's feet were close to the cave mouth now. Crouching back in the dark, the lads awaited what the seconds would bring forth. Jack's active brain, in the brief time he had had for revolving plans to avert the catastrophe that seemed impending, had been unable to hit upon one hitherto. Suddenly, however, he gave a sharp exclamation, and muttered to himself:
"I'll do it. It can do no harm, anyway."
"Well, is it a cave?"
The question came up from below, in Ramon's voice. The ruffian's accents fairly trembled with eagerness.
"Don't know yet—this confounded brush. What!"