“There’s a vessel coming in, Tom,” he cried, “and the men from here are going down to meet it. They’re after us—that’s what. Tom, we’ll be sold again to a dredger if we don’t get out of here. That’s what they got us down for.”
They had, fortunately, no clothing to put on, for they had turned in dressed, even to their shoes. They waited only for a moment, snatching up some pieces of dry bread that remained on the table from the supper. Then they hurried out of the door.
They were not a moment too soon. Perhaps the third man had been about the cabin somewhere and had given the alarm. As they stepped outside, the three negroes came plainly into sight, in the moonlight, armed with short poles which they brandished as clubs, running back toward them and crying out for them to halt.
There was a sharp surprise for the three, however. Tom Edwards, made desperate by the crisis, had drawn a fish knife that he had taken from the cabin of the Brandt; Jack Harvey stood coolly in his tracks, holding Haley’s revolver.
“Stand back there, or I’ll shoot,” he cried.
“‘STAND BACK THERE, OR I’ll SHOOT,’ HE CRIED.”
The negroes stopped short and stood, holding their clubs in hand. They were clearly taken all by surprise. The leader, balked of his prize money for two able-bodied men for the dredger, was not to be beaten, off-hand, however. His eyes flashed with anger, as he advanced a step.
“That thing isn’t loaded,” he asserted. “You can’t fool us. It won’t shoot.”
“Won’t it?” said Harvey. “Let’s see.” He raised the weapon, aiming it over the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. The report of the weapon sounded afar in the still night air, ringing out across the water. The man sprang back, in terror, and, the next moment, the three started running for the shore toward the vessel.