“Carter did it!” answered Jefferson. “He’s killed the thing. Can’t you give that poor girl to somebody to take care of, and come over here? You know, my boy,” he whispered, in a grave tone, “I don’t know whether we are out of this infernal trap yet. I hope we are, but I’m not sure.”
Just then Nick Carter came running up, with a rifle in his hand. He gave the weapon to Leslie, together with a handful of cartridges.
“There you are, old man!” he said hurriedly. “Use that if you have to. I have an automatic and a few cartridges in my pocket, so I don’t need the rifle. Pass the girl to somebody and come over here.”
Leslie Carter beckoned to one of Lord Slava’s men, and put the young woman in his charge.
“Take care of her. It’s Lord Slava’s orders,” he said.
This was not the absolute truth, but Leslie felt sure Slava would agree when he was told.
“Ready, Leslie!” asked Nick.
“Quite!”
“Come on, then!”
Jefferson Arnold had a rifle in his hand, and, with his son by his side, felt that he could defy the whole of Shangore. He grinned like a schoolboy as he slapped Leslie on the back and rushed forward to help his friends on the other side of the arena.