Somebody was shaking him, shouting at him. Suddenly instinct resumed its function, and he struggled madly to get away from the edge of the sink-hole — fought his way, blindly, through the tangled undergrowth toward the hard ridge. No human power could have blocked the frantic creature thrashing toward solid ground.
But there Quintana held him in his wiry grip.
"Fool! Mule! Crazee fellow! What did you do, eh? For why you make jumps like rabbits! Eh? You expec' Quintana? Yes? Alors!"
Leverett, in a state of collapse, sagged back against an oak tree.
Quintana's nervous grasp fell from his arms and they swung, dangling.
"What you do by that pond-hole? Eh? I come and touch you, and, my God! — one would think I have stab you. Such an ass!"
The sickly greenish hue changed in Leverett's face as the warmer tide stirred from its stagnation. He lifted his head and tried to look at Quintana.
"Where Jake Kloon?" demanded the latter.
At that the weasel wits of the trap-robber awoke to the instant crisis. Blood and pulse began to jump. He passed one dirty hand over his mouth to mask any twitching.
"Where's my packet, eh?" inquired Quintana.
"Jake's got it." Leverett's voice was growing stronger. His small eyes switched for an instant toward his rifle, where it stood against a tree behind Quintana.