"Yes," said Claud, "I believe they make a speciality of digging up these dead folks. Glad they weren't Kerry ghosts, anyway."
"Be aisy, boys, you'll meet a ghost yet before ye die."
The work was resumed once more. About 2 A.M., when all thought they had had enough of this body-snatching, they were startled with the cry of, "Help, boys! Help! They're killing me."
"By Jove! That's the Queenslander. These niggers are at him. Come on, boys," shouted Claud, lifting his entrenching tool and running towards the place from whence came the cry for help.
"Help! Help!" rang out the cry again, this time it was more muffled and weak.
"Where are you, Sambo?"
"In here," came a faint reply.
The sound came from a square building, the door of which was open. Claud dashed in, flashing his light as he went. Turning a corner, he was amazed by a strange and striking spectacle.
Sambo lay struggling and kicking surrounded by four great hulking Arabs, who had been beating, kicking and biting him in a furious struggle. The faces of all were bleeding and bruised, and blood was splashed over the white sort of overall that the natives wear. To the left of Sambo Claud saw an open tomb. Inside he could just see a kind of coffin arrangement, and on the ground, near at hand, the most varied collection of brass and other beautiful Eastern wares. This was the cause of the bother.
Crack! went Claud's fist into the eyes of the nearest Arab.