But the three Americans determined to fire as many of the soft apples at the two remaining sailors as they could land, so Jack and George were kept busy ducking and objecting, and Jim had gone half the distance between the raft and the gnarled root, where he hoped to climb up, when a blood-curdling yell was heard, which seemed to rise from his very toes.
British and Yanks alike forgot their enmity and shouted out: “What’s happened, Jim?”
But the little pickaninny, beating the water frantically with both hands, while continuing to howl, tried to jump up from the water.
Jack and George, too wet to mind more water, and John, with the two girls on shore, rushed for the captain to try and save him, for they firmly believed he was about to yell his last earthly breath.
Jack and George reached him first, and instantly caught his wildly waving arms to drag him up on shore. They thought that if it was his time to “climb the golden stairs” he was always singing about, he ought to begin on dry land.
But Jim’s yells grew more appalling as he was half-carried and half-dragged out of the water. Just as John and his two confederates ran up, the cause of all this frenzy was found.
A huge mud-turtle had snapped onto one of Jim’s brown, upcurling toes, and as resistance was brought to bear against this grip, the turtle held on the tighter.
George knew what to do, so he quickly broke its shell with a sharp stone, and Jim almost fainted with relief at his freedom. The girls tried to pet him and offer sympathies, but Jack and George took advantage of the situation.
“Ha! We brought meat to shore! We landed all right!” yelled Jack, dancing like a wild Indian.
“Three-to-one shot,” added George, rushing away to find the ammunition John had plied so thickly.