“Are you hurt, sir?” asked Ned.
The stranger shook his head. It was so dark in this spot that we could not distinguish his features very clearly.
“I—I think not,” he gasped. “But they nearly had me, that time. If you hadn’t come up as you did, I—I——”
He broke off abruptly and leaned over to peer at the Arab Uncle Naboth was sitting upon.
“That’s him! That’s Abdul Hashim himself! Kill him—kill him quick, some one!” he yelled, in a sudden frenzy.
The cry seemed to rouse the Arab to life. Like an eel he twisted, and Uncle Naboth slid off his back and bumped upon the sidewalk. The next moment we Americans were alone, for Abdul Hashim had saved his bacon by vanishing instantly.
“Oh, why—why did you let him go?” wailed the little man, covering his face with his hands. “He’ll get me again, some day—he’s sure to get me again!”
“Never mind that,” said Ned, gruffly, for we were all disgusted at this exhibition of the fellow’s unmanly weakness. “You can thank God you’re out of his clutches this time.”
“I do, sir—I do, indeed!” was the reply. “But don’t leave me just now, I beg of you.”
We looked at Uncle Naboth for advice. Bry had slit my sleeve with his pocketknife and was binding a handkerchief tightly around my wound, for he was something of a surgeon as well as a cook.