Commodore Junk. Fenn George Manville

had heard. Every time they had approached the borders of the plantation when it ran up to the virgin forest they had been on the qui vive, expecting to hear their names called again, but only to be disappointed; and, after due consideration, Abel placed a right interpretation upon the reason.

      “It was someone who got ashore from a boat,” he said, “and managed to crawl up there. It’s the only place where anyone could get up.”

      “Being nigh that creek, lad, where the crocodiles is,” said Bart. “Ay, you’re right. Who could it be?”

      “One of our old mates.”

      “Nay; no old mate would take all that trouble for us, lad. It’s someone Mary’s sent to bring us a letter and a bit of news.”

      It was at night in the prison lines that Bart said this, and then he listened wonderingly in the dark, for he heard something like a sob from close to his elbow.

      “Abel, matey!” he whispered.

      “Don’t talk to me, old lad,” came back hoarsely after a time. And then, after a long silence, “Yes, you’re right. Poor lass – poor lass!”

      “Say that again, Abel; say that again,” whispered Bart, excitedly.

      “Poor lass! I’ve been too hard on her. She didn’t get us took.”

      “Thank God!”

      These were Bart’s hoarsely whispered words, choked with emotion; and directly after, as he lay there, Abel Dell felt a great, rough, trembling hand pass across his face and search about him till it reached his own, which it gripped and held with a strong, firm clasp, for there was beneath Bart’s rough, husk-like exterior a great deal of the true, loyal, loving material of which English gentlemen are made; and when towards morning those two prisoners fell asleep in their chains, hand was still gripped in hand, while the dreams that brightened the remaining hours of their rest from penal labour were very similar, being of a rough home down beneath Devon’s lovely cliffs, where the sea ran sparkling over the clean-washed pebbles, and the handsome face of Mary smiled upon each in turn.

      “Abel, mate, I’m ready for anything now,” said Bart, as they went that morning to their work. “Only say again as you forgive our lass.”

      “Bart, old lad,” said Abel, hoarsely, “I’ve nought to forgive.”

      “Hah!” ejaculated Bart, and then he began to whistle softly as if in the highest of spirits, and looked longingly in the direction of the jungle beside the mud creek; but three days elapsed before they were set to hoe among the coffee bushes again.

      Bart let his chin go down upon his chest on the morning when the order was given, and the overseer saw it and cracked his whip.

      “You sulky ruffian!” he cried. “None of your sour looks with me. Get on with you!”

      He cracked his whip again, and Bart shuffled off, clinking his fetters loudly.

      “Do keep between us, Abel, lad,” he whispered, “or I shall go off and he’ll see. Oh, lor’, how I do want to laugh!”

      He restrained his mirth for a time, and they walked on to the end of the plantation and began their task at the opposite end to where they had left off, when the rate at which their hoes were plied was such that they were not long before they began to near the dense jungle, beyond which lay the mangrove swamp and the sea.

      “I daren’t hope, Bart,” whispered Abel, so despondently that his companion, in a wildly excited manner, laughed in his face.

      “What a lad you are!” he cried. “It’s all right; he’s waiting for us. It’s some, sailor chap from Dartmouth, whose ship’s put in at Kingston or Belize. Cheer up, mate!”

      But it was all a mockery; and when they approached the jungle at last, hoeing more slowly for, much as they longed to go up at once, they knew that any unusual movement on their part, might be interpreted by watchful eyes into an attempt at escape, and bring down upon them a shot. Bart’s voice trembled and sounded hoarsely as he said playfully —

      “Now, Abel, my lad, I’m going to talk to that there poll parrot.”

      “Hush!” whispered Abel, agitatedly. “Keep on quietly with your work till we get close, and then call softly.”

      “Oh, it’s all straight, lad,” whispered back Bart, chopping away and breaking clods, as his fetters clanked more loudly than ever. “Now, then, Polly! Pretty Polly, are you there?”

      “Yes, yes, Bart. Abel, dear brother, at last, at last!” came from the jungle.

      “Mary – Polly, my girl!” cried Abel, hoarsely, as he threw down his hoe; and he was running toward the jungle, where a crashing sound was heard, when Bart flung his strong arms across his chest and dashed him to the ground.

      “Are you mad!” he cried. “Mary, for God’s sake keep back!”

      The warning was needed, for from across the plantation the overseer and a couple of soldiers came running, every movement on the part of the prisoners being watched.

      “Sham ill, lad; sham ill,” whispered Bart, as a piteous sigh came from the depths of the jungle.

      “Now, then, you two. Fighting again!” roared the overseer, as he came panting up.

      “Fighting, sir!” growled Bart; “rum fighting. He nearly went down.”

      “He was trying to escape.”

      “Escape!” growled Bart. “Look at him. Sun’s hot.”

      The overseer bent down over Abel, whose aspect helped the illusion, for he looked ghastly from his emotion; and he had presence of mind enough to open his eyes, look about, wildly from face to face, and then begin to struggle up, with one hand to his head.

      “Is it the fayver, sor?” said one of the soldiers.

      “No. Touch of the sun,” said the overseer. “They’re always getting it. There, you’re all right, ar’n’t you?”

      “Yes, sir,” said Abel, slowly, as he picked up his hoe.

      “Sit down under the trees there for a few minutes,” said the overseer. “Lend him your water bottle, soldier. And you stop with him till he’s hotter. I’ll come back soon.”

      This last was to Bart, playing, as it were, into the prisoners’ hands, for Bart took the water bottle; and as the overseer went off with his guard, Abel was assisted to the edge of the jungle where a huge cotton-tree threw its shade; and here Bart placed him on an old stump, trembling the while, as he held the water to his companion’s lips.

      It was hard work to keep still while the others went out of hearing; but at last it seemed safe, and Abel panted out —

      “Mary, dear, are you there?”

      “Yes, yes, Abel. Oh, my dear brother, say one kind word to me!”

      “Kind word? Oh, my lass, my lass, say that you forgive me!”

      “Forgive you? Yes. But quick, dear, before those men come back.”

      “Tell me, then,” said Abel, speaking with his back to the jungle, and his head bent down as if ill, while Bart leaned over him, trembling like a leaf, “tell me how you came to be here.”

      “I came over in a ship to Kingston. Then I went to New Orleans. Then to Honduras. And it was only a fortnight ago that I found you.”

      “But how did you come here?”

      “I’ve got a small boat, dear. I asked and asked for months before I could find out where you were. I’ve been to other plantations, and people have thought me mad; but one day I stumbled across the sailors of a ship that comes here with stores from the station, and I heard them say that there were a number of prisoners working at this place; and at last, after waiting and watching for weeks and weeks, I caught sight of you two, and then it was a month before I could speak to you as I did the other day.”

      “And now you have come,” said Abel, bitterly, “I can’t even look at you.”

      “But