“Is it time yet, Dick?” whispered Roger for the third time, when it seemed as if his blood had almost stopped circulating on account of the tight bonds, and he doubted his ability to use his legs, even if set free.
“Wait a little longer,” he was told, in the same cautious tone, which, if heard at all, would be considered but the murmur of the cool night breeze in the nodding pine-tops.
The half-hour lengthened to a full one; and even this was now growing, until it must soon measure a second hour. Roger could not stand it much longer. He felt as though something within him would burst unless he could make a move of some sort.
“Listen,” whispered Dick, just then, as if in answer to the silent plea, “I saw something move across on the other side of the camp. A hand seemed to gently wave to me, and it was not the hand of an Indian, either. I firmly believe Mayhew, Heaven bless him, has come back, taking his life in his hand, meaning to rescue us from the Indians.”
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ESCAPE
“That is good news, Dick!” whispered Roger.
“There, did you see him that time?” the other asked, as cautiously as though he believed every sleeping Indian possessed such keen hearing that a very small sound would awaken him.
“Yes, and I believe it must be Mayhew. Are you starting to work your hands free, Dick? Oh! lose no time, I beg!”