“Ahoy!  Don’t shoot,” came from out of the dense jungle up the stream.

“Why, uncle,” I cried, “that doesn’t sound like a savage.”

“It’s worse, Nat,” said my uncle.  “There’s a terribly English sound about it.”

“Ahoy, I say!” came again.  “Don’t shoot!”

“Ahoy! who are you?” shouted my uncle.

“Don’t shoot, and we’ll come out,” came in tones half smothered by the thick growth.

“We’re not going to fire.  Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

There was a sharp brushing sound of leafage being forced aside, the splashing of feet in water, and the soft rattle of pebbles being moved in the stream bed by feet, and the next minute two figures came from under the pendent bough, which nearly touched the water and stood in the bright glow of the rising sun, while astonishment brought the words to our lips: 

“The carpenter!” cried my uncle.  And I burst out laughing as I said: 

“That boy!”

“Why, we took you for savages,” said my uncle.  “Was it you two who came to the fire last night?”

“And you shot at us,” said the boy, in a doleful voice.

“Shot at you?” cried my uncle angrily.  “Of course I did.  How dare you come prowling about our tent in the dead of night!”

“Didn’t prowl, sir,” said the boy humbly.  “We could see your fire burning like a light as we come along, and we came straight to it, landed ­and landed ­and you came out, sir ­came out, sir ­and fired at us.”

“Then you should have shouted.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, “but we was afraid to ­feared you’d fire at us.”

“But you see now, you came the wrong way.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy, glancing at the carpenter; “we did come the wrong way.”

“Well, what is it?  Did we leave anything behind?  Very good of the captain to send you.”

“Didn’t send us, sir,” said the boy, looking down.

“Not send you?” cried Uncle Dick, staring.  “How is it you came, then?”

The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scooping up the dry sand with his toes, and turned to his companion, who gave me a peculiar look and stood frowning.

“Why don’t you speak out and tell the gentleman, Bill Cross?”

“I left it to you, boy.  You’ve got a tongue in your head.”

“Yes; but you’re bigger and older than me.  But I don’t mind telling.  You see, Mr Nat, sir,” he said, suddenly turning to me, “I couldn’t stand it any longer.  They was killing of me, and as soon as you was gone, sir, it seemed so much worse that I went and shook hands with Bill Cross, who was the only one who ever said a kind word to me, and I telled him what I was going to do.”

“Told him you were going to run away?” said my uncle.

“No, sir,” said the boy promptly.  “I telled him I’d come to say good-bye, for as soon as it was too dark for them to see to save me I was going to ­”

“Run away?” said my uncle sternly, for the boy had stopped short.

“No, sir,” he resumed; “I was going to jump overboard.”

“Why, you miserable, wicked young rascal, how dare you tell me such a thing as that?” cried my uncle.

The boy gave a loud sniff.

“That’s just what Bill Cross said, sir:  and that he’d knock my blessed young head off if I dared to do such a thing.”

“Did you say that?” asked my uncle.

“Yes, sir, I did, sir,” said the man gruffly; “and a very stupid thing too.”

“How stupid?” said my uncle.

“If he drowned himself and went to the bottom, how was I ever to get the chance to hit him, sir?”

“Humph!  I see,” said my uncle; “but you meant right.  And what then?” he continued, turning back to the boy.

“Bill Cross said, sir, that if I’d got the spirit of a cockroach I wouldn’t do that. `Cut and run,’ he says.”

“Quite right,” said my uncle.  “I mean, get to another ship.”

“`Where am I to run to?’ I says. `I can’t run atop of the water.’

“`No,’ he says; `but you could get in a boat when it was dark and row away.’ `I dursen’t,’ I says; `it would be stealing the boat.’ `You could borrow it,’ he says; `that’s what I’m going to do.’ `You are?’ I says. `I am,’ he says; `for I’d sooner die o’ thirst on the roaring main,’ he says, `than put up with any more.’  You did, didn’t you, mate?” he cried, appealingly.

“I did,” growled the carpenter; “and I stick to it.”

“He said that as soon as it was dark he should manage to lower one of the boats and follow yours, and ask you to take him as crew; and if you wouldn’t, he should go ashore and turn Robinson Crusoe.”

“That’s right, boy,” said the carpenter; “and I would.”

“And I says to him, sir, `Bill Cross,’ I says, `if I tars myself black, will you let me come with you and be your man Friday?’”

“And what did he say to that?” asked my uncle, frowning.

“Said I was black enough already, sir, without my having a black eye; and if I come with him, he’d promise me never to behave half so bad as the skipper did, so of course I come.”

“Took one of the ship’s boats and stole away with it?” said my uncle.

The boy nodded, and my uncle turned to the carpenter.

“Is this all true?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, every word of it.  You know how bad it was.”

“And you followed our boat?”

“Followed the way we last saw your sail, sir, for long before it was dark the boat went out of sight.  But just as I’d give up all hope of seeing it again, we saw your fire like a spark on shore, and we come after that.”

“Rowed?” I said.

“No, sir; sailed.  There’s a little lug-sail to the boat.  We didn’t lose sight of the fire again, and at last we ran our boat ashore.”

“And you’ve come to offer your services?” said my uncle.

“Yes, sir,” said the man gruffly.

“But even if I could take you under the circumstances, I don’t want the services of any man.”

“Your’s is a big boat, sir, and hard to manage, particular at sea,” said the carpenter.

“I know the boat’s capabilities better than you can tell me,” said my uncle shortly, “and I do not require help.”

“Then we’ve made a bad job of it, boy,” said the carpenter.

“The gentleman don’t know what we can do, Bill, and how useful we should be.”

“I daresay,” said my uncle, frowning, “but I do not want a man, nor another lad.”

“If you’ll only let me stop, sir,” said the boy piteously.  “I don’t want no wages, and I won’t eat much, only what you’ve done with, and there arn’t nothing I won’t do.  I’ll carry anything, and work ­oh, how I will work!  I’ll be like your dog, I will, and you can both knock me about and kick me, and I won’t say a word.  You won’t hit me half so hard as the skipper and the men did; and even if you did, you’re only two, and there’s twenty of them; so if you’re allus doing it I shall be ten times better off.”

“It’s my duty to send you and your mate, here, back to the ship,” said Uncle Dick.

“Oh, don’t say that, sir,” cried the boy; “but if you did, we shouldn’t go, for Bill Cross said if you wouldn’t take us along with you we’d go and live in the woods, and if we starved to death there, we should be better off than aboard ship.”

“But you signed for the voyage, my man,” said Uncle Dick, “and if I consented to take you with me I should be helping you to defraud the owners.”

“Serve the owners right, sir, for having their people treated like dogs, or worse,” growled the carpenter. “’Sides, I don’t see what fraud there is in it.  I’ve worked hard these two months, and drawn no pay.  They’ll get that, and they may have it and welcome.”

“That’s all very well,” said Uncle Dick, “but a bargain’s a bargain.  The want of two hands in an emergency may mean the loss of the ship, and you and this lad have deserted.  No; I can’t agree to it; you must take your boat and go back.”

“Can’t, sir, now,” said the carpenter bitterly; “and I thought we was coming to English gentlemen who would behave to a couple of poor wretches like Christians.”

“It is no part of a Christian’s duty to be unjust.  You know you have done wrong and have helped this poor lad to do the same,” said my uncle.

“I should have fought it out, sir, if it hadn’t been for the poor boy.  Dog’s life’s nothing to what he went through.”

“Where is your boat?” said Uncle Dick, suddenly.

The carpenter laughed.

“I dunno, sir,” he said; “we sent her adrift when we landed, and you know what the currents are along here better, p’raps, than I do.”

“What! you’ve sent your boat adrift?”

“Yes, sir; we made up our minds to cut and run, and we can’t go back now.  We didn’t want to steal the boat.  They’ll get it again.”

Uncle Dick frowned and turned to me.

“This is a pretty state of affairs, Nat; and it’s like forcing us to take them on board and sail after the steamer.  What’s to be done?”

“Cannot we keep them, uncle?”

“Keep them?  I don’t want a boy to kick and knock about and jump on, sir.  Do you?”

“Well, no, uncle,” I said; “but ­”

“But!  Yes, it’s all very well to say `but,’ my lad.  You don’t see how serious it is.”

“I’d serve you faithful, sir,” said the carpenter.  “I’m not going to brag, but I’m a handy man, sir.  You might get a hole in the boat, and I didn’t bring no clothes, but I brought my tools, and I’m at home over a job like that.  You might want a hut knocked up, or your guns mended.  I’d do anything, sir, and I don’t ask for pay.  It might come to your wanting help with the blacks.  If you did, I’d fight for you all I could.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do, Nat.  What do you say?”

The boy darted forward wildly and threw himself upon his knees.

“Say yes, Mr Nat; say yes!” he cried imploringly.  “Don’t send us off, sir, and you shan’t never repent it.  You know what made us run away.  Say yes, sir; oh, say yes!”

“I can’t say anything else, uncle,” I said, in a husky voice.

“Hooray!” yelled the boy, throwing his cap in the air.  “Do you hear, Bill Cross?  The gentleman says `yes’!”

The loud shout and the flying up of the cap had the effect of starting a little flock of birds from the nearest trees, and, obeying the instinct of the moment, Uncle Dick raised his gun and fired ­two barrels, each of which laid low one of the birds, which dropped in different directions.

I was off after one of them directly, and, in utter disregard of Uncle Dick’s warning shout, the boy was off after the other, but took some time to find it in the dense growth amongst which it had fallen.

“A beautiful little finch, uncle,” I said, as I brought back my prize.

“Lovely!” he cried.  “I never saw one like this before.  It’s a pity I did not stop that fellow.  He will have spoiled the other.”

But he was wrong, for the boy was just then coming from among the low bushes, carefully bearing the second bird upon the top of his cap, which he held between his hands like a tray.

“Is he all right, sir?” said the bearer excitedly.  “I picked him up by his neb and never touched his feathers.”

“Yes, in capital order,” said Uncle Dick.  “Come, you’ve begun well!”

The boy’s eyes flashed with pleasure, and taking advantage of Uncle Dick being busy over the birds, he turned to me.

“Then we may stop with you, Master Nat?” he whispered.

“I suppose so, but you must wait and see what my uncle says.  I say, though,” I cried, “will you keep your face clean if you’re allowed to stay?”

“Face?  Clean?” he said, passing his dirty hand over his dingy countenance.  “Ain’t it clean now?”

I burst into a roar of laughter, for the poor fellow’s face was not only thoroughly grubby, but decorated with two good-sized smudges of tar.

“You mean it’s dirty, Mr Nat,” he said seriously.  “All right; I’ll go and scrub it.”

The next minute he was down on his knee at the water’s edge scooping up a handful of muddy sand and, as he termed it, scrubbing away as if he would take off all the skin, and puffing and blowing the while like a grampus, while the carpenter looked on as much amused as I. But he turned serious directly, and with an earnest look in his eyes he said: 

“Thank you for what you said, Mr Nat, sir.  You shan’t find me ungrateful.”

I nodded, and walked away to join my uncle, for I always hated to be talked to like that.

Uncle Dick had his small case open, with its knife; cotton-wire, thread, and bottle of preserving cream, and when I joined him where he was seated he had already stripped the skin off one of the birds, and was painting the inside cover with the softened paste; while a few minutes later he had turned the skin back over a pad of cotton-wool, so deftly that, as the feathers fell naturally into their places and he tied the legs together, it was hard to believe that there was nothing but plumage, the skin, and a few bones.

“Open the case,” he said, and as I did so he laid his new specimen upon a bed of cotton-wool, leaving room for the other bird, and went on skinning in the quick clever way due to long practice.

“It doesn’t take those two fellows long to settle down, Nat,” he said, as he went on.

“No, uncle,” I replied, as I turned my eyes to where the boy had given himself a final sluice and was now drying his face and head pounce-powder fashion.  That is to say, after the manner in which people dried up freshly-written letters before the days of blotting-paper.  For the boy had moved to a heap of dry sand and with his eyes closely shut was throwing that on his face and over his short hair.

“There’s no question of right or wrong,” said my uncle quietly.  “If we do not take these fellows with us it means leaving them to starve to death in the forest, for they have neither gun, boat, nor fishing tackle.”

“But it would be wrong not to take them,” I said.

“Yes,” replied my uncle drily.  Then he was silent for a few minutes while he turned back the skin from the bird’s wing joints, and all at once made me look at him wonderingly, for he said “Bill!” with the handle of the knife in his teeth.

“What about Bill?” I said.

“Bill ­Cross,” continued my uncle.  “What’s the other’s name?”

“Boy,” I said, laughing.  “I never heard him called anything else.  Hadn’t we better call the carpenter Man?”

“It would be just as reasonable,” said my uncle.  “Ask the boy his name.”

By this time our new acquisition was dry, and I stared at him, for he seemed to be someone else as he dusted off the last of the sand.

It was not merely that he had got rid of the dirt and reduced the tar smudges, but that something within was lighting up his whole face in a pleasant, hearty grin as he looked up at me brightly in a way I had never seen before.

“Is my face better, Mr Nat?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “ever so much; and you must keep it so.”

“Oh, yes,” he said seriously; “I will now.  It was no good before.”

“What’s your name?” I said.

He showed his white teeth.

“Name?  They always called me Boy on board,” he replied.

“Yes, but you’ve got a name like anyone else,” I said.

“Oh, yes, sir,” he replied, wrinkling up his forehead as if thinking deeply; “I’ve got a name somewheres, but I’ve never seemed to want it.  Got most knocked out of me.  It’s Peter, I know; but ­I say, Bill Cross,” he cried sharply, “what’s my name?”

The carpenter smiled grimly, and gave me a sharp look as much as to say, “Wait a minute and you shall see me draw him out.”

“Name, my lad,” he said.  “Here, I say, you haven’t gone and knocked your direction off your knowledge box, have you?”

“I dunno,” said the boy, staring.  “I can’t ’member it.”

“Where was it stuck on ­your back?”

“Nay, it was in my head if it was anywhere.  Gahn!  You’re laughing at me.  Here!  I know, Mr Nat; it’s Horn ­Peter Horn.  That’s it.”

“Well, you are a thick-skulled one, Pete, not to know your own name.”

“Yes,” replied the boy thoughtfully; “it’s being knocked about the head so did it, I s’pose.  What shall I do now, sir?  Light a fire?”

“Yes, at once,” I said, for the thought made me know that I was hungry.  “Make it now between those pieces of rock yonder by the boat.”

The boy went off eagerly; Cross followed; and I went back, to find my uncle finishing the second skin.

“That’s a good beginning, Nat,” he said.  “Now, then, the next thing is to see about breakfast.”

“And after that, uncle?”

“Then we’ll be guided by circumstances, Nat,” he replied.  “What we have to do is to get into the wildest places we can find where its river, forest, or mountain.”

“Isn’t this wild enough?” I said.

“Yes, my boy; but I want to get up into the interior, and we must find a road.”

“A road means civilisation,” I said.

“Ah! but I mean one of Nature’s roads ­a river.  Sooner or later we shall find one up which we can sail, and when that is no longer possible we must row or pole.”

“Then we shall find the advantage, uncle, of having a little crew, and ­ what’s the matter now?”

I stared in astonishment, for the minute before Pete and the carpenter were busy feeding the fire and trying to get the kettle they had swung, gypsy fashion, on three bamboos, to boil.  Now they were both crawling towards us on all-fours, Pete getting over the ground like a dog.

“It’s all over, Master Nat, and good-bye if yer never sees us again.  It’s Robinson Crusoe out in the woods now.”

“Why, Bill,” I said, “has he gone mad?”

“Pretty nigh, sir.  Look.”

“Look at what?”

“Steamer, sir, found the boat, I s’pose, and they’re coming round the point to pick us up.  Good luck to you, gentlemen, and good-bye.”

He plunged after Pete into the bed of the stream, and they disappeared in the jungle, just as the steamer in full sail and close in came gliding into our sight, towing a boat astern.