The dog let out a deep, baying cry as Tim struck, and this was answered by several animals near the house. I soon had my knife at work, and, in spite of a lacerated shoulder, plunged it again and again into the ferocious brute. Then he relaxed his hold, and I stood up. A lantern flashed in the path, and, before we could run, forms of men showed close to us.
“Who is it? What’s the matter?” said a strong voice I recognized as Yankee Dan’s. Behind him were Mr. Curtis, Miss Allen, and the two stalwart conchs who accompanied them from the landing.
It was now or never. The dog was evidently done for, and we must run for it.
“Come on,” I said to Tim, and away we went.
“Halt!” came the deep voice of the trader. “Halt, or I’ll fire!”
“It’s the sailors; don’t!” cried Miss Allen.
We were going pretty fast, and must have been out of sight in a few minutes. Perhaps the trader did not wish to hit us. At all events, his shot whistled past, and we were soon out of range. Had he known the loss of his dog, he might have taken better aim.
We were soon in the thick tropical jungle, and, as it was almost impenetrable, we were forced to halt. We waited a few minutes to try and get our bearings, and then worked out into the open again, keeping away from all lights. In this way we blundered along for an hour or two, Tim swearing noisily at the darkness and obstacles that came in our path.
“It’s all foolishness, anyhow, for you to clear here,” said he. “They’ve hounds that’ll catch us in half an hour, and there’s no way to leave this island, without going to sea, before they hunt for us.”
“Well, show me a boat,” said I, angrily. “Anything that’ll carry a sail across the Florida channel will do, and, if you think I’ll mind stealing it, you know mighty little how I want to clear. I’ll face the savages of the Florida peninsula before going with that gang of nigger hunters.”