"They don't seem to care much," giggled Jeckol.
But Bartlet raised a finger.
Far away in the wood something stirred. It drew nearer, with long pauses, pressing on and at last charging recklessly through the undergrowth. We had the spot covered from half a dozen rifles as there broke out at the verge a creature that leaped and clung among the creepers.
"Mahrster!" it cried, imploring. "Mahrster!"
A man—though more like a naked, starving ape with his knobby joints and the bones in a rack under his black skin—and shaken now by the ecstasy of terror! Not at us. He faced the guns without wincing. His beady eyes kept coasting behind him the way he had come as if he looked to see a dreadful hand reach from the thicket and pluck him back. The jungle, the land, was what he feared—
"Mahrster," he gasped, "you take'm me that fella boat along you! One fella ship-boy me—good fella too much!"
"What name?" challenged Peters. "What fella ship?"
From the chattered reply we caught a startling word.
"By Joe—he's one of their boys! Give way, cap'n."...
We edged in until Peters could yank the quaking bundle aboard and pulled again to safety from the mangrove shadow while the fugitive stammered his story in broken bêche de mer.